My new neighbor was a hoarder. She hoarded everything. Crystals, pink bakery boxes—she even took in children. Each one was flawed: too restless, not bright enough, a daisy-shaped head. The sound of ... [+]
She waited for almost two days before calling the police. Even though she knew in the pit of her stomach that something was terribly wrong – her husband had never gone a single day without talking to her, much less two, not in fifteen years of marriage – calling the police still felt a little dramatic, even clichéd. She'd spoken to family, though, friends, his assistant at work, cryptically fishing for information as to where he might be, and got nothing. She had to call. But as soon as she dialed those numbers – 911 – she felt, not like a wife whose husband has disappeared, but a character i