I laid my son to rest fifteen years ago—or at least, that’s what I learned to tell myself. Barry was eleven when he disappeared. Sandy-blond hair, quiet smile, the kind of boy who didn’t ask for much. The kind you think you’ll have forever. Then one day, he was gone. We searched for months. Police dragged the quarry lake. Volunteers combed through woods and fields. My wife, Karen, and I lived beside the phone, waiting for it to ring. It never did. Eventually, the sheriff sat us down and said what no parent ever survives hearing. Without a body, there...
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