Page 67 of Angel of Thursdays

He checked the bathroom. Empty. Hand towel folded on the ring. He checked the hallway, the back porch. He took out his phone and called.

Four rings. Voicemail. He called again—four rings, voicemail. The third call went to voicemail after two. The phone had been silenced.

“May’s gone,” he said.

His mother’s hands stopped. She’d been plating—dinner at five, and it was seven minutes past, and the kitchen was in the final stage where every burner was occupied and every surface held something that needed to go to the table. She looked up at him.

“What do you mean gone? He’s probably playing with the kids. Call him for dinner, Minseok-ah.”

“His shoes aren’t at the door, Umma. He’s not here.”

She stiffened, then concentrated, sorting through moments in a day that had a million moving parts for her.

“He told me he was going to the bathroom. That was half an hour ago.”

“Yeobo,” she called. His father appeared in the kitchen doorway, still holding the remote. Behind him, the TV murmured trot music. Minju stood up from her seat on the couch, joining their father.

“What’s happening?” she asked.

“You haven’t seen May.” It didn’t come out like a question.

“No… I thought—He’s not here?”

Cassiel shook his head, looking at his phone. No response.

“You don’t have Find My Friends or whatever?”

He didn’t. They had never set that up. He always knew roughly where May was. May was always sending updates, couldn’t stop himself, and Cassiel only went so many places.

“No, we—” His jaw tightened. He turned around to face his mother, who had halted her preparation fully. “He didn’t say anything else?”

She shook her head.

David appeared at the other entrance to the kitchen with Jaewon at his side, Hayoung still asleep in the living room. David’s eyes went to Minju, then Cassiel. He stepped back, clearing the doorway.

“Uncle Cass.” Jaewon’s voice was loud in the crowded kitchen. “Did May-hyung go home without saying bye to me? We were making a tower.”

“I don’t know,” Cassiel said, trying to think. A tower. Blocks. Living room. Bathroom. Then out the door.

“That’s rude,” Jaewon said.

His father set the remote on the counter, walked to the bowl by the front door where the car keys lived between a stack of coupons and a ceramic dish Jaewon had painted at school, and picked up the keys.

“I’ll drive,” his father said.

Cassiel followed him. His mother’s voice came from behind—“Bring him back for dinner!”—and the door closed.

* * *

His father pulled out of the driveway without adjusting the mirrors. The route to 880 was automatic: left on Paseo Padre, right on Mowry, the on-ramp.

Cassiel sat in the passenger seat and tried to build a map.

May’s apartment. Outer Richmond, Balboa Street. The mint green stucco, the in-law unit around and below and behind. He’d been there enough times. He knew the building. He’d entered through the side gate that May had propped open. He’d walked him home twice.

He gave his father the cross streets. His father merged onto 880.

The bay was black to the left. The flat absence of light where the water should be. The bridge came and went: toll plaza, suspension cables lit from below, the city ahead in orange sodium and white LED, two color temperatures that had no business coexisting.