We’d been in Alaska for two weeks when we heard about the missing family. Bowl of cereal on the counter waiting to be eaten. Wallets, coats, and cars still in the house, still in the garage. Even the dog was gone. Complete disappearance. Ghosted into another world.

We became architects of imagination—the mom had to get her 3 and 5-year-old on the run to keep them safe. The boyfriend would meet them with the dog. We created a religion of circumstances to make the story hold water so it could walk on it.  Armies of angels scoured the land for clues. Cyprian, patron saint of occultists, gave up after 54 days.

Back home under Midwest sunsets, we dreamed of the long dark months of winter and how the 5-year-old might name the stars, since they were there all the time. Hi, Harry. Morning, Robin. Or is it night, Aloysius? She let her little sister name all the moose that crossed their path. We hoped the dog would keep them warm.

Almost a year later, their bodies were found less than half a mile from their home. Murder-suicide. The boyfriend.  His body 13 feet away from theirs. With the dog. Had he saved the dog until last? The cherubim shrugged. The seraphim lit their cigarettes and sighed, their breath a halo of smoky prayers shivering in the air. After all, the simplest explanation is the right one. There is no God.