The side lot smelled like damp cardboard and old oil. A dumpster hummed, flies tracing lazy circles over a torn bag of pretzels. He called her name. The echo didn’t bother to answer.
At the chain-link fence: a scrap of blue thread snagged like a thought you can’t complete. He didn’t know what it meant, so he gave it meaning.
He dialed 911, and discovered how small a voice can sound when it finally tells the truth.
