“I am not equipped to deal with a missing person — I am on Wellbutrin.”
I sat at my least favorite red light, texting my cousin. It had been two hours since his location last updated.
Where the fuck is he?
I watched her three dots dance along the bottom of the screen. Then —
“Omg no I completely understand.”
Of course she does. We’re Wellbutrin buddies.
I stared into the brake lights in front of me and gripped the steering wheel harder. The silver sedan’s right-turn signal blinked slowly.
Why the fuck aren’t they moving? The wide-open turning lane just begged to be used.
Ding — another text.
“Are you going?” she asked.
Trying. If the car in front of me would ever get — a — move —
The sedan inched onto the main road. I accelerated behind them —
Right into another line of traffic.
I stomped on the brakes.
The dog stumbled across the backseat.
/
I approached his parked car as quietly as I could. Overhead, an amber light glowed inside a second-floor office.
I wondered if that’s where he was. Hopefully, still in one piece — not six.
Something moved in the pile of fallen leaves. The dog froze mid-step.
I tightened my grip on the leash and tried to drag her along. She strained against her harness.
But on the fifth tug, she gave in. When we reached the car, I peeked through the passenger window. A blue notebook sat on the seat.
Hey — that’s mine.
I moved to the back window. Crusty Tupperware containers covered the back seat.
Gross. Most definitely his.
A squirrel burst from the leaf pile and bolted across the parking lot.
The dog lunged after it with her full weight. I braced myself for the leash to snap taut.
Right now, she had bigger concerns than a missing parent.
/
I knocked three times. An elderly gentleman answered the door.
His face said, “Who the hell are you, and why are you banging on my door at 7 PM when we close at 5?” — but his mouth said, “Hi, how can I help you?”
I kind of asked, “Is he still here?”
He smiled and stepped aside. “We really tied him up — do you want to come in and see?”
I took a step back and tightened my grip on the knotted leash. Absolutely-the-fuck not.
Across the street, an idling lawnmower thrummed loudly. The guy tending to his yard paused, wiped his forehead with his oversized white T-shirt, and looked over.
He’d spent the past thirty minutes side-eyeing me as I walked laps around the psychiatrist’s office. He’s got to think I’m some kind of deranged patient.
My partner poked his moussed head around the corner and saw me standing in the doorway.
He demanded to know why I was there.
I demanded to know why his phone had been off for three hours.
His prospective employer quietly shrank down the hallway.
We exchanged whispered what-the-fucks. Then we agreed he hadn’t been murdered.
The dog strained against her harness. Another squirrel.