Forty Thousand Dollars Demanded to Bring Our Lost Daughter Home
Patrick was already fifty yards ahead of me, his small frame cutting through the high weeds near the edge of our old pasture. He was running toward the sunflower garden, his arms swinging wildly as he kicked through the tall grass.
By the time I reached the edge of the patch, he was already in the center of the ruins. The broken yellow stalks lay scattered around him like fallen timber, dried and graying in the dirt.
In the middle of the clearing stood the single standing sunflower stalk, the one where we had found the white box on Sunday morning.
Patrick grabbed the stalk with both hands. He pulled on it with all his weight, his teeth gritted, his face wet with sweat and tears. The thick green fiber groaned but did not break.
“Patrick, stop,” I said, walking toward him with my hands raised. “You will cut your palms on the outer husk.”
“I don’t care,” he yelled, throwing his shoulder against the stalk. “It is all a lie. Everything is a lie.”
