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five-dollar folding umbrella on a New Haven local the other morning. It takes him forever to figure out which of the couple dozen black folding umbrellas in the “July: Umbrellas” bin belongs to him, and when at last he does, he, too, has to fill out a claim form.
    Finally he’s on his way, and it’s Nick’s turn.
    It’s 6:20.
    “My daughter lost her stuffed animal in the station,” he tells the woman, admiring the patience in her chocolate-colored eyes. If he had to work here and deal with people all day, he’d want to kill them or himself.
    “When did she lose it?”
    Good question.
    “Recently.” He’d assume today, considering that Lauren told him Sadie couldn’t live without it— if his ex-wife didn’t have an annoying habit of turning even minor household issues into urgent crises.
    “Recently as in this week? This month?”
    He nods. For all he knows, the toy has been missing for a month, but…
    “She lost it in the station?”
    “Yes.”
    “Do you know where, exactly?”
    Nick quells the urge to challenge her exceeding patience and remind her that if he knew where, exactly, he most likely wouldn’t be here.
    “I have no idea. She was with my wife. Ex-wife,” he amends hastily…and is rewarded with, not a dirty look, but not exactly a pleasant one.
    “Do you know what the toy looks like?”
    “It’s pink,” he tells her, “and it answers to Fred, and if I don’t get it back to Sadie, then, believe me, life as we know it is over.”
    She smiles, God love her.
    “You have kids,” he guesses.
    “You bet. Hang on a second.”
    She turns to peruse the shelf behind her, and returns to the counter with a large blue bin marked “July: Misc.”
    “It’s pink, you said? Is it a pink flamingo?” She pulls one out.
    “No. Not a flamingo.”
    The woman behind him hacks away like she has tuberculosis.
    Repulsed, he tries to remember what Lauren said about Fred. Was he a cat? A duck? Whoever heard of a pink duck?
    “Is it a dog?” She shows him one. “It’s the only other pink toy in here.”
    He nods vigorously. “Yup, that’s Fred.”
    “You sure? Because it’s been here for a week.”
    “Positive,” he lies. “That’s when she lost it. About a week ago.”
    Maybe not, but it’s pink, and it’s furry, and there are no other pink toys, and the woman behind him is coughing up God only knows what, and he’s desperate to get out of here. If it’s not Fred, Sadie will probably never know the difference.
    “I just need your driver’s license so that I can make a copy, and I need you to fill out this claim form.” The woman slides a clipboard across the counter.
    “You actually keep a record of every single thing people lose and find around here?”
    She smiles and nods. “Every single one.”

    “Do you have a feeling, one way or another?” The therapist’s voice intrudes on Elsa’s melancholy thoughts.
    She looks up to see Joan watching her.
    “A feeling about what?” she asks.
    “About whether Jeremy is alive?”
    Or dead.
    Ever tactful, Joan doesn’t complete the question.
    The wisp of hope drifts, as it does from time to time, like a helium balloon whose string was swept beyond her grasp by a cold, cruel wind.
    “What do you think, Elsa?”
    In this particular moment, she doesn’t think . She knows .
    A mother knows.
    There’s no mistaking the aching emptiness; the sense that you will never again cradle your sweet child in your arms.
    “He’s dead,” she says resolutely.

CHAPTER TWO
    D o you want white or red? I brought both.” Holding a paper bag from the wine store, Trilby McCall follows Lauren to the kitchen, her heeled sandals tapping across the hardwoods.
    “Is the white chilled?”
    “Yep.”
    “Definitely white then. Maybe that’ll cool us off.”
    Lauren steps around comatose Chauncey on the floor in front of the fridge, pushes her sweat-dampened hair back from her forehead, and looks up to make sure the paddle fan is still turning. It is, but