THE UTILITY BILL is due. Actually, it is overdue—by two weeks now. They owe $124.55 and can’t get another extension. Carolyn Thompson walks down the narrow hall to Annie’s room, trying to think of a solution. Henry’s disability check won’t arrive for another two weeks, and it barely covers his medication, let alone the mountain of bills. She pushes on Annie’s door, and the thin wood slides open soundlessly. Annie’s bed is empty, the light from the window filling the room with bright sunshine.
“Annie…” Walking forward, she speaks quietly, not wanting to wake her husband, asleep in the next room. She picks up a discarded sock and the remnants of a popped balloon off the floor, moving to the clothes hamper and then the trash. Always something. Never enough time or enough money. “Annie, I don’t have time for this. We’ve got to get you ready for school.” She returns to the hall, moves to the bathroom and opens the door, looks behind the shower curtain. “Annie!” Irritated, she gives up the attempt to be quiet, too short on time. “Annie! Come out, I’ve got to get you dressed! I don’t have time to look for you!”
There is a noise from the back bedroom. Great. Her husband is awake. She opens the door to their bedroom. “Honey, Annie is hiding. Let me find her and get her dressed, then I’ll come and help you.” He nods from the bed, and she closes the door, then moves past the wheelchair in the hall and heads for the living room, her voice now at maximum volume. “Annie Thompson! I am not playing with you! Get out here now!”
Annie is not in the trailer, a fact easily discovered in the five minutes her mother spends searching. It is one of the few benefits of three people living in eight hundred square feet. She moves outside, her stride purposeful, the utility bill forgotten. She is not yet worried.
Henry Thompson sits upright in bed, cursing his useless legs. He heard Carolyn search the home, heard her calls to Annie, saw her come in the bedroom and search the small space, hoping that she hid under their bed or in their closet. Now she is outside, her calls increasing in volume and frequency. Something is wrong. Carolyn might not yet realize it, but something is definitely wrong. Annie wouldn’t do this to them. She wouldn’t bring worry to Carolyn, a woman who already carried too much stress. He lifts his legs, sliding his body to the edge of the bed, and reaches out for the nightstand with his hand.
Carolyn stands in Georgia dirt, cotton fields surrounding her—the plants small, in early stages of growth, too short and puny to hide a child. And she realizes, as sun warms her back and gentle wind rustles empty fields, Annie is gone.
He feels her despair, feels the moment that she comes to the same realization he does. He hears her inner wail before it leaves her lips. And in that moment, that breakage, when Carolyn sinks to her knees in the Georgia clay, his hand slips and his body tumbles to the ground, legs helpless to catch him.
Somewhere, in darkness, Annie begins to cry.