It was on the morning of May first that Jack Kemper disappeared. Vanished from his bed. Neighbors were called. A search went out for the boy. The police came over the course of three days and investigated but found no clues whatsoever as to what had happened to Jack Kemper. In his bedroom, there was only the empty bed, sheets and pillow askew. No footprints led anywhere of interest. No windows had been opened or walls climbed down. No signs of break-ins anywhere, so abduction was thrown out as a theory. The boy had disappeared in his pajamas, as all his other clothing was accounted for, which then aroused a host of other questions as to why, if he'd run away, he would've gone off into the cold night with so little clothing.

Was Jack mentally unstable? asked the police. Had he been emotionally upset at the time of his disappearance?

Yes, of course, his parents had to honestly reply. Yes, Jack had been through much for a boy of nearly thirteen. With his brother's accident, his own journey through medications that numbed his heart, his father's leaving and returning. . . yes. He had been through much.

This seemed to clarify to the police that Jack had had reason to leave. They claimed they had "put together the puzzle." He most likely had been emotionally and mentally traumatized, they said. He should've been kept on his medicines, they said. He probably "lost it" and ran away.

And these assumptions and ideas caused Mrs. Kemper to burst into tears. Her heart broke over the children she hadn't been able to protect. Her husband tried to soothe her as they stood in the kitchen, exhausted from the past few sleepless nights and draining days, but he, too, wanted to give up. Wanted to just melt away and forget this life that had somehow twisted into something neither of them could understand. During his absence, he had battled with the fact that he hadn't been able, as a father, to keep his son from harm. He had tried desperately to rebuild the faith in his own abilities as a man and a protector of a family. He'd felt nothing but guilt for months, and now, this is what it had taken to cause him to realize how detrimental and selfish his decision to leave had been.

This.

Jack's disappearing.

It was unbelievable. Just after everything had been putting itself back into place—places that were different but were manageable. Now this happened.

And during all of this, Kyle Kemper had sat up in his bedroom, in his wheelchair, thinking very little of his brother. Knowing only that his twin had gone and feeling envious that Jack had been able to get away. Because he, with his broken body, couldn't get away from anything or anyone, as much as he would've liked to. Yes, it wasn't concern or apprehension he felt over Jack—it was only supreme jealousy. And it festered in his brain along with the million other angers and disappointments he'd accumulated during the past months since his accident. Nothing was here for him, now. No hope. No dreams. No nothing.

It was thought, in the beginning days after Jack's disappearance, that the boy would turn up within a week. It was believed (though left unsaid) that he wouldn't be found alive. Still, when one week turned into eleven days—eleven long days that felt more like years to his parents—what little faith remained about discovering his whereabouts began to diminish.

Kyle went to school during those days. His parents insisted on it. They couldn't have him brooding at home over his brother, they said. What they failed to realize, though, was that Kyle was not brooding over his twin at all. In fact, he felt hardly anything about Jack's absence. He was rather intent on going to school, because those times, while painfully unlike the days he'd used to have with his friends, kept him in a routine that had become familiar. So his mother drove him to school, and neither of them spoke to one another. He'd get picked up from school, and whatever conversation ensued about the day was forced. At home, they would eat dinner, Kyle would do homework and go to bed, and Mr. and Mrs. Kemper would wait up, unable to really sleep, hoping at every second that a phone call would bring word of their missing son.

But the eleven days proved uneventful.

Grace Maloney arrived at the Kemper house on the morning of the twelfth day. She'd already been over four other days during Jack's absence, but this time, she brought with her someone else: Miss Anne Collins.

When Mrs. Kemper opened the front door to see the slight, fair woman, the first thing she felt was a strange sense of awe. That soon gave way to recognition, however, when she realized that she knew the woman before her, which showed clear in her shifting expression.

"Hello, Mrs. Kemper," Miss Collins said. "I'm Ann Collins. I teach at Webster Day School."

Mrs. Kemper nodded. "Yes, that's right. I remember you. You teach Kyle's music class."

"I do. And I taught Jack, as well, before he left Webster Day."

The mention of Jack's name caused his mother's mouth to tremble slightly. She wasn't sure she could bear hearing about her son from anyone else until they found him.

Miss Collins sensed this. "I know this is painful for you, and I understand that you don't want to talk about Jack. But if you would like, I may be able to explain some of what is going on with your son. That is, if you feel up to speaking with a near-stranger about him."

The way that Miss Collins had spoken—as if Jack was still alive—I may be able to explain what is going on with your son—caused a wall to crumble in his mother. She did her best with a reserved smile and asked the music teacher in, and Grace Maloney, who'd been standing some way back on the lawn, strolled off down the sidewalk, heading back toward home, knowing full well that Jack was going to be all right.

In the living room, Mrs. Kemper offered Miss Collins tea. Mr. Kemper had left to run errands, and Kyle was sleeping in, as he'd had a fever that morning. The quiet and orderliness of the house, the crackling little fireplace and soft lighting, would've made anyone else feel quite at home. Miss Collins, however, felt only a near-overwhelming heaviness in the air. A darkness that seeped through the porous light. A feeling of foreboding that someone with less astute senses would have no way of comprehending.

The atmosphere created a strange sense of urgency in Miss Collins, and she put down her tea nearly as soon as it was given to her. Before Mrs. Kemper had a chance to begin small talk, Ann said, "As odd as this may sound to you, Mrs. Kemper, I know that Jack is alive, and I also can tell that he is still here, in this house."

Taken quite aback, Jack's mother glanced from side to side, as if expecting to see her son walk into the room. She hardly knew what to say in response to such a comment.

Miss Collins continued. "I came here not to behave as all-knowing or to offer false hope. I came only to help you understand that Jack will return, and that he has never really left."

"Have you spoken to him?" Mrs. Kemper blurted, on the edge of her seat. She felt tears in her eyes. Who was this woman to speak of Jack as if she knew him better than his mother did? "How do you know he's here?"

Not wanting to appear offensive, Miss Collins chose her words carefully. "Have you ever felt that Jack has . . . has abilities beyond your or my understanding, Mrs. Kemper? Does he . . . see things . . . hear things? Is he often lost in his own world, so to speak?"

Now, Mrs. Kemper sat back against her chair. She sighed deeply, as if it was something she'd been in denial over for too long and was finally letting go of. "I think it's been obvious to everyone, including his teachers, that Jack has problems with attention and distraction."

Miss Collins leaned forward. Said in a quieter tone, "But you know, Mrs. Kemper . . . I can tell that you know Jack's lack of focus is not a disability."

Looking up, Mrs. Kemper gazed at the light-haired, thin woman before her, whose eyes suddenly took on a strange light.

"Jack is gifted, Mrs. Kemper. And I can tell that you believe that."

"You are the first teacher to ever speak to me of Jack's nature as a positive thing."

Miss Collins rose from her seat on the sofa. "That's because I was like him, and I recognized his giftedness the moment he stepped into my classroom."

"Then why didn't you ever say anything to us?"

"Because he didn't even recognize it himself, and he needed to come to that understanding on his own."

Rising, Mrs. Kemper looked pleadingly at the other woman. "And has he . . . now?"

Anne smiled. "I believe so."