It was a map of Portland with a red circle around Hannah’s last known workplace.
The map remained on my phone screen as I walked back inside.
At nine the next morning, the kitchen was quiet except for the steady drip of the faucet.
Ryan stood by the stove, his eyes fixed on the vintage silver coffee pot as it began to steam.
He held his phone in his left hand, his thumb hovering over the screen with a slight tremor.
I pulled the kitchen chair out and sat down, watching him.
He tapped the screen twice, his face falling into a deep frown as the banking application loaded.
The small silver spoon he had been holding for his tea slipped from his fingers.
It clattered against the linoleum, rolling under the edge of the refrigerator.
“Are you alright, Ryan?” I asked.
