MY HUSBAND AND OUR THREE SONS VANISHED DURING THEIR ANNUAL FISHING TRIP—SIX YEARS LATER, MY DAUGHTER FOUND HIS OLD PHONE AND DISCOVERED WHY HIS BROTHER HAD BEEN BEGGING ME TO STOP SEARCHING

Tobin shouted something about catching the biggest fish.

Ned leaned out of the window.

“Love you, Mom!”

I blew him a kiss.

“Love you too, sweetheart!”

The truck pulled away.

I stood on the porch watching until it disappeared around the corner.

Then I went inside.

And began preparing for a weekend with the girls.

Sunday evening came.

I made roast chicken.

Mashed potatoes.

And the apple pie Roscoe loved.

At six o’clock, I set the table.

At seven, I checked my phone.

No messages.

I frowned.

Roscoe sometimes lost reception near the lake.

So I waited.

At eight, I called him.

Voicemail.

At nine, I called again.

Nothing.

Then I called Jory.

His voicemail played.

It was an old recording of him laughing with his friends.

I remember smiling through my worry.

Then leaving a message.

“Jory, sweetheart, tell your father to call me. Dinner’s getting cold.”

At ten, I called again.