ONE

“ELLIE’S MISSING.”

I sit up straighter in my chair, suddenly more alert than I’ve been the whole call-in section of tonight’s podcast. The caller’s young—I’d reckon no more than ten, eleven at the outset—and speaking so low I can barely hear him, but I’ve finally caught the kind of story I was hoping for when I signed up to do a podcast this semester.

“Who now?” My cheeks get hot; if I looked in a mirror, which you’ll never catch me doing, I’d be as red as a freshly-picked tomato. My Southern accent already flags me as stupid to too many people up here without me slipping into the way people talk back home. “I mean to say, who’s Ellie, sweetheart? And speak up a little so we can all hear you, all right?”

“Sorry. Ellie’s my sister, but Daddy’ll kill me if he knows I’m calling the radio.”

“Brave boy.” I bite my lip, unsure if that’s an appropriate way to talk to a child on the air. “Let’s begin at the beginning, all right? What makes you think Ellie’s missing?”

“She didn’t call tonight, and she always—”

Static overtakes him, followed by:

“Daddy, no! We have to—”

“I told you not to bother anyone with this nonsense, didn’t I?”

“Hello?” I raise my voice.

More static, and then the daddy’s voice, deeper and more sure of itself than the boy could ever dream of being, says, “Wrong number, sorry.”

The line goes dead.

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