They were a bit tipsy as they slid into the backseat of my cab in front of the St. Regis Hotel. Two women in their forties—a blonde with a blue scarf, who wanted to go to Russian Hill, a brunette in a short gray jacket, who was going someplace further. It was a Friday night, 10 pm. Their topic was how everything was wrong with a woman named Ava.

Paul and I were out looking for conkers when we found the angel. We didn’t know it was an angel at first; we just saw a load of feathers on the ground and assumed that a bird had been eaten, but we followed them to the big crater which was full of the angel.

Clarence’s mouth watered as he pulled his great-big white Dodge truck into the gravel driveway.  He could hardly wait to taste the pint of chocolate custard that he had in his passenger seat.  It was his daily treat.  He stopped and pulled the parking brake.  He grabbed the pint and nearly choked himself on the seatbelt, which jerked tightly against his gut.  He unbuckled it, and slid out of the cab.  He walked over the path of flat rocks that lead to his trailer.

Missing girls are not hard to find. They are mothers and daughters who go on long walks in winters, usually along lakes. They have eyelashes like spider legs and paint their fingernails bright shades of reds and pinks to hide the built up dirt caked underneath.