I came back from a business trip, and the first thing my seven-year-old son said was, “Don’t go into my room.” Of course, I went in anyway.

Too quiet.

I stepped inside and closed the front door behind me. Bennett stayed close enough that his shoulder pressed against my hip.

“Maybe she’s in the kitchen,” I said, more to calm myself than him.

I checked the kitchen.

Empty.

Two mugs sat beside the sink. One had a tea bag still floating inside it. The other looked untouched.

The backyard.

Empty.

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