I am fifty-three years old, but part of me has been frozen in 2008.
That was the year my son disappeared.
His name was Ethan.
He was only eight.
We had stopped at a small gas station on Route 9. It was a hot afternoon, and Ethan asked for a cold Sprite from the vending machine inside.
“I’ll be right back, buddy,” I told him.
He smiled at me from the back seat.
I was gone for less than a minute.
But when I came back, the car door was open.
And my son was gone.
No scream.
No witness.
No trace.
Just gone.
The police searched for weeks. Volunteers walked through the woods with flashlights. Dogs were brought in. Ethan’s face was printed on posters and taped to every window, pole, gas pump, and grocery store door in town.
But time is cruel.
People eventually went home.
The news stopped calling.
