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off the line, I began dialing my father’s number. Old habits are harder to bury than the dead.

They Don’t Play Stickball in Milwaukee
    The airport at Riversborough was the stuff of sketch comedy. Though situated just south of the Canadian border, it wasn’t exactly a major hub. It had one runway, a wind sock, and a terminal building the size of a Photomat. None of this, however, prevented the port authority from shamelessly proclaiming: “Welcome to Riversborough International Airport—The best little gateway this side of the border.” I would have hated to see the worst little gateway.
    Snow and liberal arts were Riversborough’s major commodities. As I drove my rental into town, I read several bill-boards for the area ski resorts. They all, apparently, liked the copywriter for the local port authority. Their ads were equally shameless and catagorically featured the words best and little. I wasn’t great at Scrabble, but I bet I could have kicked that copywriter’s ass.
    When I checked in with the local police, they gave me the same song and dance Fazio had laid on me, only in a more polite, northern New York kind of way. Zak would turn up. They were sure of it. None of them had attended the college, but they knew it was extremely competitive. And when one cop told me that Riversborough was the best little liberal arts college town in the east, I asked him if he had any relatives in advertising.
    The campus was postcard pretty. The buildings were all red brick and white clapboards bordering a central quadrangle. The only bit of ostentation was the gold dome atop the library clock tower. There was no visible activity on campus and a visitor might suspect school was still in recess. But like many schools situated in snow belts, underground tunnels connected all the buildings.
    I parked in the visitors’ lot and made my way around to the dorms. Though not quite as quaint as the main body of the campus, their design features were consistent with the rest of the school’s architecture. When I walked up to Zak’s door there was already someone waiting. Her nature was a mystery to me as she rested her head on her knees and hugged her blue-jeaned legs.
    â€œHow ya doing?”
    She was startled. “God, you sound like Zak.”
    â€œPeople say that.”
    After inspecting my face, she said: “You look like him too.”
    â€œPeople say he looks like me. I’m his Uncle—”
    â€œâ€”Dylan.” She popped up and shook my hand. “Way cool. Zak talks about you all the time. You’re the cop turned writer.”
    â€œSomething like that.” I was happy to hear her refer to Zak in the present tense. “And you are?”
    â€œOh, sorry. Kira, Kira Wantanabe.” She bowed slightly.
    Kira Wantanabe made my heart pound. I couldn’t imagine a man whose heart wouldn’t pound at the sight of her. I let go of her hand, afraid she might feel my palm begin to moisten. We just stood there for a second, smiling awk-wardly at one another.
    â€œDo you know where Zak is?” I finally got to the point.
    â€œI wish I did. Like I told the cops and those other men, he just split a few days before break and I haven’t seen him since. I come up here at this time every day to see if he’s back.” She frowned.
    â€œAre you two. . .I mean. . . ” Jesus, I sounded like a jerk.
    â€œNo, Uncle Dylan,” Kira smiled coyly, “we are not. Last year we were together once. We are happier as friends.” She checked her watch. “I have class.”
    â€œCan we talk later, please?”
    â€œYes, I would like to speak to you. Meet me in front of the library at 7:00. Great.” She bowed again, ever so slightly.
    I watched her move in silence down the hall.
    I opened the door to Zak’s room with a key Jeffrey had provided. One of the advantages, some might say disadvantages, of Riversborough was that students were