“Dad! You’re not watching!”
His son’s little feet shuffle impatiently on the living room carpet, a makeshift cardboard contraption with bed sheets spread at odd angles beside him.
“Then I say ‘Abracadabra’…Dad! Dad, you have to look closely!”
Now he closes his eyes against the memory of his annoyance and disregard, punches the staple through the Missing Child poster with his six-year-old’s son smiling face in grainy sepia. The ultimate disappearing act.
Garish lights hurt his eyes, sear his soul. He turns to the camera and pleads into ether, tears flowing unabashed.
“My little magician, please come back to me.”