There was no mistake: the missing person report was showcasing someone I had just seen, what felt like minutes ago. I hated to admit it, but my heart was at my toes and my stomach was becoming more upset by the second. I hadn’t experienced this before, this sense of loss and helplessness that comes with not being able to change an event, no matter what you do. Could I try to look for them? Could I call their family and let them know I had just seen them, and how sorry I was? I had tried that once with a missing dog poster. I called the people and let them know how sad it made me to see their dog was missing. The call didn’t go so well and they told me to never call back again if I was only going to mock them. Thing was, I wasn’t trying to mock them.

I ran my hands through my hair and settled them on my hips. It felt like the beginning of the end. I had been trying to ignore the newscast with my thoughts, turned away from the TV. I couldn’t … I turned back, watching as the anchor continued to talk about the missing person, their face so familiar.

I needed a cigarette. I grabbed the pack with my lighter tucked neatly inside and made for the front door. It wasn’t opening. Confused, I continued to push, figuring leaves or snow had been piling up there. I always used the back door, anyway. WIth a final, heavy push, the door swung open and I saw them curled in a ball at my feet, hands still bound: the missing person.

They wouldn’t try to escape again, I thought as I tugged them indoors, ensuring nobody else was outside on the block. My heartbeat settled and the cigarette tasted good between my lips.