"Okay, let the games begin," I say with clenched teeth to a God who takes more than He gives. First, He took my husband, and now, my nine-year-old son, Isaac, was missing; and the antique store once full of whispering lanterns and story-telling quilts has fallen silent, providing no clues as to where he's gone.
But anger is a powerful thing, and a mother's determination even more so. Three weeks have passed. Now, standing in front of the antique store where I last saw Isaac gleefully smiling at the anticipation of what might be inside, I feel the same strange force that drew us there in the first place.
One step. Then two.
"Hang on, Isaac. Mom's coming."