Our Missing Hearts: A Novel

Des Moines

always stores his keycard in the outside pocket of his bag, ready

Thank you to my husband for bringing me lunch when I forget to eat, patiently listening while I ramble about plot points and research, taking on more than your fair share of house and family duties while I write, and having faith in my work even when I’ve misplaced my own.

They have never been like this before: two flinty stones striking off sparks.

He remembers the color of the light in the evenings, when it was nearly time for bed: honey-colored and warm, coating everything in its sweet syrupy glow.