When my alarm goes off at its usual time, I wake up to silence.

The house is quieter than usual. Typically, there would be the drone of the sound machine in Eleanor’s room. Even when she was away visiting my parents I would have it on to maintain that sense of routine, but last night I broke that pattern and it made the house feel even emptier.

I hadn’t given much thought to what my actions should be, but I knew, at the very least, the shape the path needed to take.

I followed my usual routine: pulling myself out of bed and hobbling into the bathroom with stiff muscles. I start my morning ritual with a quick shower and shave before getting dressed for the day. Once completed, I walked to Eleanor’s room. Opening the door, I looked at her empty bed and focused on what was next.

I knew that what I was about to do would cause unimaginable pain to the people closest to us, especially my parents, but it was the only possible outcome. Who would believe me when I told them that I had magically willed my daughter into the multiverse?

It had to be realistic, though. Even though I had been a theatre nerd in high school and college, I was never able to convince myself that I was a good actor. I always felt that I was always rehearsing a different version of myself. It wasn’t until dress rehearsal, when the costume or makeup was on that I felt more complete as the character I was portraying. There were always moments during the play when I would feel myself letting go and slipping more fully into the persona, but when I reflected on those moments I always felt that I was just speaking the words the playwright wrote as a version of myself and not the actual character.

How I approached these next moments had to feel authentic. There had to be truth rooted in my actions. I was worried about Eleanor—that much was true. I hoped she was safe and happy being with her mother again, but not knowing how she truly was still caused anxiety.

So I focus on that feeling–that sense of anxiety–and let it blossom inside my chest.

I crinkle my brow looking at her empty bed and her name becomes a question. “Eleanor?”

Stepping out of Eleanor’s room, I look in the bathroom, flipping on the light. “Eleanor? Where are you, girl?”

I head downstairs, looking in the kitchen, the dining room, the living room, the second bathroom, the garage, the basement—all while calling her name.

Grabbing my shoes, I slip them on quickly and head outside. “Eleanor!” I call. I yell loud enough that I hope my neighbors hear me.

I walk up our street, calling her name, letting my voice become more desperate.

“Eleanor!”

Turning around, I walk down the street, back past our house, still calling.

Checking my watch, I realize that it’s almost time for the other children on my street to begin lining up for the school bus. Looking around, I see the faces of a couple children pressing their faces against the glass windows of their house, watching me pacing up and down the street.

A front door opens and a neighbor steps out—Peter, I believe.

“Have you seen Eleanor out this morning?” I ask.

Possibly-Peter shakes his head, stepping down the concrete steps to his driveway, walking towards me. I notice that he isn’t wearing any shoes, his socks darkening as they pick up moisture from their sprinklers.

“What’s going on?” he asks.

“I woke up and I couldn't find Eleanor. I’ve looked everywhere and she isn’t in the house.”

“Are you sure?” he asks.

I don’t immediately respond, because I feel like I need to be responding and acting more irrationally. I rub my hands through my hair as I continue looking around the neighborhood. “I looked everywhere,” I repeat. “But—” I let the sentence trail off as I walk back to my house, leaving the front door open as I begin searching again. From the upstairs window I can see that possibly-Peter is watching our house. His wife is standing next to him and he’s whispering in her ear. Their two school-aged children filter by with their backpacks, crossing the street to the bus stop. I call for Eleanor again, as loudly as I can, and I can see him stop talking to his wife, both of them looking up towards my house.

I feel a bit pleased with myself and my performance so far.

But what comes next?

Is this the time I call the police? At what point would you realize that something was truly off and call the authorities?

There was a story several years ago in the newspaper about a five-year old boy who had snuck out of his house at night during winter. The door had one of those handles that weren’t made for little boy hands and the doorbell was too high for him to reach. The next morning the parents had awoken, began their morning routines, and eventually discovered that he was missing. When they finally ventured outside, they saw tiny little footprints leading away from their doorstep and around to the side of their house. There they discovered their son, frozen to death, next to their air conditioner.

I remember reading that story with Veronica, thinking about the horror those parents must have gone through. They had probably searched the entire house before venturing outside and I already did—venture outside, I mean.

Perhaps this was the right time to call the police.

Possibly-Peter and his wife are still outside and so I head down my driveway to the sidewalk.

Pulling out my phone I dial 9-1-1. I explained stiffly that Eleanor was missing. The operator on the other end asks when the last time I saw her was and I tell them about last night and how she went to bed and how I checked in on her before going to bed myself; sometime around 11 PM

The operator asks if there were any signs of a break-in. I tell her no, but think better of it, and mention that I had forgotten to lock the sliding glass door that leads to the backyard; discovering it this morning. There’s more questions and I try focusing on the answers while seeming distracted by the loss.

“An officer has been dispatched and should be arriving in the next five to ten minutes,” the operator tells me.

“Okay, thank you,” I tell her before hanging up.

Possibly-Peter and his wife have crossed the street and are on the sidewalk just outside my house, a short distance away. I can tell that they weren’t trying to eavesdrop, but by the look on the wife’s face I could tell that they couldn’t help but overhear.

I nod, acknowledging their empathy and turn back to my phone to select my parents’ contact card to call them. My mom picks up the phone and I ask for my dad; knowing that I needed the more rational side of their relationship to break the news to.

“We’re coming over,” he tells me before hanging up.

A few minutes later at the top of the street I can see the police car turning the corner and heading towards me. They pull into the driveway and a detective, a woman, along with a uniformed officer emerge.

The rest of the morning is a flurry of questions and activities. After inspecting the rest of the house and spending the most time in Eleanor’s room, we sit at the kitchen table and the detective begins by asking questions about Eleanor’s description.

“How old is she?” she asks.

“She’s five. Almost six. She’ll be six in October.”

“Do you have a recent picture of her?”

I pull out my phone, showing her a recent photo I had taken of her playing at a playground.

The detective holds the photo, staring at it for a while, before she asks, “Has anything changed? A recent haircut, perhaps?”

“No,” I respond. “This picture was from a few weeks ago. Her hair is a little bit longer.”

“Do you know when she went missing?”

“No. I went to bed around 11 PM. I checked in on her then and she was asleep in her bed. This morning I woke up at 6:30 AM and saw that she was missing.”

She notates this on her notepad. “Did you notice any unusual details?”

“I realized this morning that I left the sliding door unlocked.”

“Was it opened?”

“No. It was shut.” More writing. “The switch—the lock—was down instead of up in the locked position,” I elaborate.

“Did anything else appear out of place?”

“No.”

“Does Eleanor have any physical or mental issues?”

“She’s a five year-old, so there’s that.”

The detective tilts her head at my response. “I mean, is she happy and healthy?”

“Her mother died several months back.”

The detective pauses and looks intently at me. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Eleanor misses her and sometimes cries about it, but I thought she was doing better.”

“Does Eleanor sleep walk?” she asks.

“No.”

“Has she ever wandered outside without your permission?”

“She has. We have a rule that going into the backyard is fine. Our backgate is always shut and locked, so she can’t move from the backyard to the front yard. But the front yard is off limits unless I’m out there. I’ve caught her a couple times in the front yard without my knowledge and we’ve sat down and talked about it. Most of the time, it was her going outside to get the mail or to collect rocks. She’s never done this at night, though.”

“Does she have any health problems? Diabetes? Food allergies?”

I shake my head.

By this time another patrol car had arrived and I could see a couple officers in my backyard walking about, looking in window wells and underneath the porch.

“What was she wearing when she went to bed?” the detective asks me.

“Pajamas,” I tell her. “Pink ones with gold stars.”

“Did you notice if anything else was missing?”

“There wasn’t anything in her room that looked out of the ordinary.”

“Are her shoes here?”

This question, in particular, catches me off guard. If she left on her own, Eleanor would have taken her shoes with her. She’s very careful to always make sure she wears shoes outside, because of several trips and falls where she’s scraped the tops of her toes. However, if she was abducted more than likely she would have been grabbed out of her bed and her shoes would have been left. I know the answer, but I get up from the table anyway, walk to the closet, open the door to it, and rifle through the disorganized mess until I find her favorite shoes. I hold them up so that the detective could see them. She nods, making a note.

There’s a knock on the front door. Before I could open it, it swings open and it’s my dad, followed closely by my mother.

“Have they found her?” my mother immediately asks.

I shake my head and she gasps, hand flying to her mouth. Fresh tears start to flow from her already red eyes.

“Excuse me,” the detective says. “Could we get something that might have Eleanor’s DNA? A toothbrush or a hairbrush?” Leaving my parents, I retrieve those two items, and the officer has me place them directly into an evidence bag.

The officers outside are by the sliding glass door, dusting it for prints. Will they only find mine? Should I have put on gloves and smudged the fingerprints already on the door handle? Their activities move inside as they dust the inside handle. I can see the prints emerge in the dark pattern; those of larger fingers higher up on the handle and Eleanor’s, smaller and little bit lower. One officer takes photos of the fingerprints, while the other prepares a clear adhesive tape which he places on the surface of the door handle, lifting the prints off.

Soon they take my fingerprints, as well as my parents. The entire process seems to take forever. Eventually, the officers and the detective filter out of our house and begin knocking on neighbors’ doors.

At some point, possibly-Peter’s wife comes by with a tray of sandwiches. After dropping them off in the kitchen, she hangs out awkwardly. I couldn’t tell if she was genuinely trying to help or if she was only interested in the neighborhood gossip. I’m not really hungry, but I tell her thanks. “I’m sorry about Eleanor,” she says. “John—” that was his name! “—and I are praying for you.” Shortly after, not-Peter’s wife leaves.

My parents and I sit in silence at the kitchen table. How long will this go on before I can move on? I know that Eleanor is gone and isn’t coming back. At what point will the police realize that there isn’t any evidence of foul play and that she just vanished? At what point will my parents move on? But I know that question won’t ever be answered. My mother, due to her personality and faith, would always hold on to some glimmer of hope that Eleanor would one day return. She would hold onto that hope until the day she dies.

There’s a soft knock on the door and the detective steps back into the house.

“Hey,” she says. “I was just talking to one of your neighbors—” she looks at her notepad “—Clare. She lives just up the street from you. Do you know her?”

“Not directly,” I respond. “I probably have seen her around the neighborhood.”

“She said something interesting that I wanted to follow up with. She said that yesterday, around 11:30 PM, she saw you running past her house.”

Shit.