I met George Saint James the day my mom vanished.

The night before, I fell asleep the same way I always did—wishing for something extraordinary to happen. At eight years old, I was certain of one thing: I was destined for great adventures.

In the morning, a heavy spring rain attacked the last of the snow, liberating purple and white crocus blossoms from their icy beds. My older brothers and I knelt by the window, watching tire grooves fill with heaven-sent tears. Mom’s station wagon was missing.

Our dad barely spoke when we roused him, but as he sipped his first cup of coffee, he told us our mother had gone home. Only Darwin, who was twelve, seemed to understand what that meant. Moby was ten, and I could tell he was as confused as me.

This was our house. Wasn’t this home?

Dad couldn’t say how long Mom would be gone, but he assured us she’d come back, and we had no choice but to believe him.

As soon as the rain tapered to a drizzle, we were kicked outside. Without Mom to patiently comb out the tangles, my hair was a ratty mass. I was still wearing my nightgown, but Darwin made sure I put on my rubber boots and yellow raincoat. Moby fetched the basketball.

I wanted to play, but my brothers wouldn’t pass to me. They never passed to me. I yelled and stomped in puddles, but they kept chucking the ball over my head. Fed up, I grabbed the green butterfly net from the mudroom and set about trying to capture a creature in the thicket at the edge of the field. A worm, a grasshopper, maybe even a frog.