That instrument embodied eleven months of sweat, a birthday memory we all cherished, and a dream he had nurtured since childhood.

That was why my heart seized with panic when I entered his bedroom yesterday afternoon and found an empty steel stand.

I had carried a basket of freshly folded laundry upstairs, intending to place his clean denim jeans into his wooden dresser.

At first, I thought Noah might have borrowed a gig bag to carry the guitar to school for an impromptu jam session.

Then I remembered that seventh-graders only had music appreciation on alternating Wednesdays and Fridays.