The Missing Person

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I’m very grateful to the Michener Center for Writers in Austin, Texas, where I started this book, and to Portsmouth Abbey School in Portsmouth, Rhode Island, where I finished it. For their support and encouragement over many years I also owe big, big thanks to Amy Williams, Gary Fisketjon, my friends, and my family. All writers should be as lucky as I have been.

Days started in Brooklyn with bright, compromised light. I’d been sleeping late. In the mornings, the blinds sending geometric stripes across the sheets, I kept willing myself to wake up, then slept again, fifteen minutes each time. Construction and conversation, dogs barking their greetings, the irritated beeping of vehicles in reverse — none of it could get me out of bed. By the time I got up, it seemed too late to bother doing anything; the day was almost gone. This was a problem I’d been having.

The phone rang early in the morning, early in June.

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