When I was a child I believed there was a place where lost things collected, the way sea-drift found its way ashore to the same sheltered cove on our beach. I never knew if it was a story I’d heard or one I had made up, but I could picture it clearly: a black hole where time stood still and the lost things lingered—socks, shoes, purses, keys, missing pets—until people stopped looking for them and they faded from memory. After Sarah was gone, I imagined her in that place. Suspended, sleeping.
Not knowing was like living inside a well with slippery sides and the occasional crack between stones, a foothold, a scrabbling place. I yearned for answers; I tortured myself, going over the things I could have changed if only I had been paying attention. After Sarah was gone, I moved on, but I built my house around the well. While I was busy living, it sank deeper; the distance
was greater, the light dimmer. This time the climb might be impossible, but I had no choice—I let myself fall.
My life is a story in two parts.
Before.
After.
The day my daughter went missing, we were at war…
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