So I did what I could.
I printed hundreds of missing-person posters and carried them wherever I went. I hung them in supermarkets, bus stations, laundromats, diners, and across my college campus.
I gave copies to my coworkers and kept several folded inside my bag in case I met someone new. Before every shift, I checked my phone and prayed that one of those posters had produced a miracle.
It never did.
I printed hundreds of missing-person posters.
Since Mom vanished, “whatever I could spare” had become almost everything. Searching for her wasn’t cheap. Neither was keeping our family afloat without her.
That Friday, a couple was seated in my section shortly after seven. They looked like they belonged at this restaurant: wealthy enough to treat the prices as decorative suggestions.
They were celebrating their anniversary, they told me.
They were polite—kinder than many of our regulars—but distracted. The man
