By Carl Tait

Max looked up from his Kafka and across the playground. He didn’t see Rachel on the swing set where he had left her. How many times had he told her not to wander off by herself?

His eyes shifted to the neighboring play areas. On the tall silver slide, the girl who screamed as she went zooming down the incline wasn’t his daughter. Nor was Rachel in the oversized sandbox full of children creating lopsided sculptures. Where was she?

Max grunted and stood up from the bench, reluctantly relinquishing his prize seat that was sheltered by a leafy tree. He noticed the chubby man at the end of the bench already eyeing the shady spot.

Max clutched his book and went in search of his daughter. He began at the swing set, hoping he had missed her there. He had not.

“Rachel? It’s time to go home,” he called. No one answered.

He walked over to the climbing pyramid, which was made of thick oak beams rubbed smooth by countless small hands. There was a cool, dark spot under the structure that made a convenient hiding place. Kids loved the little cavern and parents hated it.

With difficulty, Max bent down and poked his head under the pyramid. A boy stared up at him with wide eyes. No one else was there.

Max stood up. “Rachel?” he called again.

A man who resembled an adult version of the boy in the cavern spoke up.

“Looking for your child? Happens to me all the time.”

Max nodded. “Yeah. Her name’s Rachel. Wait, I have a picture.” He pulled out his wallet and extracted a photo. Rachel was grinning in the picture, unashamed of the gaps in her smile where baby teeth had fallen out.

“Cute kid. Hey, I can help you look. Just let me tell my son to stay where he is. We don’t need another lost one.”

Max said nothing.

“Oh, God, I didn’t mean it like that,” said the man. “I’m sure we’ll find her. By the way, my name’s Herman.”

“Max.”

Herman admonished the boy to stay under the pyramid, then set off in search of Rachel.

Max began to walk in the opposite direction. Was it his imagination, or had Herman been staring at his grey hair? It wasn’t the first time. Too many people thought he was Rachel’s grandfather. You had children too late, Max could hear them thinking. You can’t chase after them when they’re lost.

Not lost, Max reminded himself. He knew Rachel was nearby.

Unless she had been taken. He tried to suppress the thought but could not. Pedophiles loved playgrounds.

Why had Herman called Rachel a cute kid? Wasn’t that odd? No, it wasn’t. The man had a son under the pyramid. Or claimed he did. The boy even looked like Herman. Didn’t he?

Paranoid rambling, Max told himself. He kept searching.

Heckscher was a large playground. Max thought he knew it well but could never keep all the details in his mind. It was a place for children, and his days of being a child were long past.

Max had made a wide circle and was back at the bench where he had started. The shady spot was now occupied by the chubby man, who was doing a crossword puzzle. Exhausted and distressed, Max plopped down into a broiling seat in the direct summer sun. He stared at the ground.

“Hello,” said a voice.

Max looked up into the smiling face of a young blonde woman.

“Did you find Rachel?” he asked, smiling back.

The woman’s smile faded as Herman ran up.

“This man’s little girl is lost,” he said. “Can you help us look for her? Her name is Rachel.”

“She’s not lost,” said the woman. “I’m Rachel.” She pulled out her driver’s license and showed it to Herman, who stared at Max in disbelief.

“He has early-onset Alzheimer’s,” said Rachel. “I’m afraid it’s getting worse.”

Max was puzzled. “You’re not my daughter,” he said. He opened his wallet and showed her the photo.

Rachel sighed. “Dad, that picture was taken fifteen years ago when I was little. That was a great day at the park. I still remember it.”

Max closed his eyes.

“I’m in college at Vassar,” Rachel continued. “Home for the summer. Try to think.”

Max drew a breath. “Vassar. I remember. You’re older now.”

“I am. Let’s go home. I’ll get your Kafka.” Rachel took her father’s hand and picked up his book.

The cover image was a cockroach lying on its back, waving its legs in confusion.

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Carl Tait is a software engineer, classical pianist, and writer. His work has appeared in After Dinner Conversation (Pushcart Prize nominee), Mystery Magazine (cover story), the Eunoia Review, the Literary Hatchet, the Saturday Evening Post, and others. Carl grew up in Atlanta and currently lives in New York City with his wife and twin daughters. For more information, visit carltait.com.