The church bell downtown hasn’t tolled at night since before my kids were born. But at 3:17 a.m., it rang once, then again, a lonely metal heartbeat. My wife said don’t you dare, which I heard as be careful. Ten minutes later I was at the base of the steeple, pajama pants tucked into my boots like a fool.
The janitor’s door was ajar. Upstairs, dust hung in flashlight cones. Near the bell, I found a piece of twine tied to the clapper—and a folded paper wedged in the beam: “If you hear this, please look for me.” A name. A street I didn’t know…