PART 1 — The Stitches Beside the Pocket

Julian was eighteen when he disappeared.

It happened on an ordinary January morning.

He ate breakfast at the kitchen counter, complained that he was going to be late, grabbed his backpack, and kissed my cheek before leaving.

The last thing I said was, “Zip your coat.

It’s freezing outside.”

He rolled his eyes and laughed.

That dark green coat was the last thing I saw him wearing.

Julian never came home that night.

At first, I thought he was making a point.

We had argued the evening before, and eighteen-year-olds were capable of finding a dozen reasons not to answer their mothers.

I made dinner, left his portion covered, and checked my phone whenever the screen lit.

By ten, I had called twice.

By midnight, I was calling friends.

The next morning, irritation had become something I could barely name.

I looked at the shoes beside his bedroom door, the mug he had used, and the notebook open beneath his desk lamp.

There was no explanation waiting among the ordinary things.

His car was found two days later in a parking lot several miles away.