I look up as a man with ruddy cheeks and a crew cut walks into the restaurant, shaking rain from his baseball cap. “Hey, sweetheart,” he calls to the pink-haired girl mixing drinks behind the bar. “Any chance you can hang this in the window?”

“Sure thing,” she says, nodding toward the piece of paper in his hand. “Another fundraiser for the fire department?”

“No, someone’s gone missing,” he says.

“Missing? What happened to her?”

“Not her. Him.”

“Him? Well, that’s not something you hear every day.”

“Disappeared the night of the storm. Trying to get the word out.”

The door closes behind him as she walks to the end of the bar and picks up the flyer, reading aloud to the woman eating lunch at the corner seat. “Dr. Sam Statler, a local therapist, is six foot one, with black hair and green eyes. He’s believed to be driving a 2019 Lexus RX 350.” Whistling, she holds up the piece of paper. “Whoever he’s gone missing with is a lucky lady.” I steal a glance at Sam’s photograph—those eyes, that dimple, the word MISSING in seventy-two-point font above his head.