The women I beg the universe aren’t Marie or Sofie.
Mr. Higgs sets down his coffee and the soft clink of ceramic against wood seems louder than it should.
I stare into my mug, watching the dark liquid stir in tiny circles.
The ceramic presses into my palms as my fingers lock around it.
Not fear, that would be easier. Hope is what wears you down.
Hope asks you to keep showing up. To keep looking.
To keep convincing yourself the next answer will be different from the last.
Two years of dead ends have taught me how heavy that can become.
I feel Mr. Higgs observing me from across his desk.
Not pushing or rushing me.
Giving me a moment to gather myself. Giving me the illusion of a choice.
Even though we both know why I keep coming back and why I’m here.
Even though we both know what my answer will be.
“Ready?” he asks gently.
I draw in a measured breath and lift my eyes to his.
For a moment, the temptation is there.
To say no.
To stand up and walk out.
To leave the answers buried where I can’t find them.
But I’ve come too far for that.
I’ve spent two years chasing every lead, every possibility, every scrap of certainty that they’re still out there.
I’m not stopping now.
I give a small nod.
“Yeah.”
For the next several minutes we go over the newest unidentified persons reports that have come through the system.
Basic information, estimated ages, physical descriptions, known identifiers, locations, dates and every detail investigators have managed to gather.
I’ve reviewed enough of them over the years that the process feels ordinary now.
There’s nothing ordinary about it.
Yet somehow, it’s become part of me.
Mr. Higgs walks me through each one methodically with skilled patience.
