Every single window is closed tight. Blinds drawn, curtains closed, shutters locked. If anyone is inside, they are walking around in absolute darkness.
I pull out my new burner and dial Vera’s number. The number rings and rings and rings, but I have a hard time hanging up even when I know she isn’t answering.
Where is my son? I want to scream. What have you done with my baby?
If I could just talk to her, I could convince her to end all this madness.
After stopping at a pizza place to fuel up, I nab a copy of the yellow pages from the restaurant’s ancient-looking payphone and begin calling pediatricians.
The phone book is old, so half of the places I call are no longer in business or the number is disconnected. Even the clinics I do get in touch with are unwilling to help me.
“If you
