The door is jammed. You push. It gives. You are seven. The hallway smells of dust and old wool. You are looking for the edge. The boundary. The line where the house ends and the world begins.

Your brother is gone. He has been gone for three days. The police say he is missing. They say they will find him. They say he is likely out there, alive, just lost. You do not believe them. You know the shape of his absence. It is a hole in the floorboards. A crack in the wall. You trace the plaster with your finger. It is rough. It is white. It is fading.

You have a map. It is drawn on the back of a grocery receipt. You found it in the trash. It is a scribble. A path. It starts at the kitchen table. It goes through the living room. It goes out the back door. It goes into the woods. It stops at a circle. A red circle.

You follow the path. You are small. Your feet slip on the wet leaves. The woods are dark. The trees are tall. They look like fingers. They reach for the sky. You do not look up. You look down. You look at the ground. You look for the red.

You find it. It is not red. It is brown. It is dirt. It is a patch of bare earth. It is in a clearing. The grass is tall around it. You kneel. You dig. Your nails break. You do not care. You dig. The soil is cold. It is wet. It smells of rot.

You find a shoe. It is small. It is blue. It has a lace. The lace is untied. You pick it up. It is light. It is empty. You hold it to your chest. It is not him. It is not enough.

You stop digging. You sit. The sun is going down. The shadows are long. They stretch across the clearing. They touch your face. You feel cold. You feel alone. You are seven. You should be in bed. You should be sleeping. You are not. You are here. You are waiting.

The police car comes. It is loud. The lights flash. Red and blue. They blind you. You cover your eyes. You do not want to see. You want to be invisible. You want to be the dirt. You want to be the root.

A voice calls out. It is a man’s voice. It is loud. It is angry. You do not answer. You cannot. Your throat is tight. Your hands are full of mud. You hold the shoe. You hold it tight.

They find you. Two officers. They are big. They are strong. They look at you. They look at the hole. They look at the shoe. One of them speaks. He speaks to the other. He says, "Just a kid." He says, "Playing." He says, "Look at the clothes. Muddy." He says, "He’s scared."

You stand. Your legs shake. You look at the shoe. You look at the hole. You look at the officers. You do not cry. You do not speak. You are a stone. You are a wall. You are the boundary.

They take you home. They do not take the shoe. You leave it there. You leave it in the dirt. It belongs to the woods. It belongs to the dark. It belongs to the truth.

Your mother is in the kitchen. She is crying. Her face is wet. Her eyes are red. She sees you. She sees the mud on your knees. She sees the dirt on your hands. She screams. She runs to you. She hugs you. She holds you tight. She smells of soap and fear. You smell of earth and decay.

You do not move. You do not breathe. You are still. You are the edge.

The days pass. The weeks pass. The house changes. The colors fade. The wallpaper peels. The floors creak. Your mother stops crying. She starts cleaning. She scrubbs the floors. She washes the walls. She tries to wipe away the stain. She tries to erase the hole.

You sit in the corner. You watch. You do not speak. You do not play. You do not go outside. You stay inside. You stay on the boundary.

Your father comes and goes. He looks at you. He looks at your mother. He looks at the empty room where your brother used to sleep. He does not look at you. He cannot. He is afraid of what you know. He is afraid of what you saw.

He is the traitor. You know this. You have always known this. He did not look. He did not see. He let the door stay open. He let the boy go. He let the dark in.

He sits at the table. He drinks coffee. He looks at the wall. The wall is white. It is fresh. It covers the crack. It covers the truth. You watch him. You see the sweat on his forehead. You see the tremor in his hand. He is afraid. He is not brave. He is not strong. He is small.

You want to tell him. You want to scream. You want to break the wall. You want to show him the dirt. You want to show him the shoe. You want to make him see.

You do not.

You are seven. You are small. You are powerless. You are the child. You are the one who follows. You are the one who digs. You are the one who finds.

But you are also the one who holds. You are the one who remembers. You are the archive. You are the record. You are the alibi.

The alibi is not a lie. The alibi is a fact. The alibi is the dirt. The alibi is the hole. The alibi is the shoe. The alibi is you.

You sit in the corner. You watch the light change. The sun goes down. The shadows grow. They creep across the floor. They touch your feet. They are cold. They are dark. They are the woods. They are the clearing. They are the truth.

You close your eyes. You see the red circle. You see the blue shoe. You see your brother’s face. He is smiling. He is running. He is free. He is gone.

You open your eyes. The room is dark. Your mother is asleep in the chair. Her head is tilted back. Her mouth is open. She is dreaming. She is dreaming of a clean house. She is dreaming of a whole family. She is dreaming of a world without holes.

You stand up. Your knees crack. Your back aches. You walk to the window. You look out. The yard is empty. The fence is broken. The woods are black. The dark is deep.

You press your hand to the glass. It is cold. It is smooth. It is a boundary. It is a wall. It is a shield.

You are behind it. You are safe. You are inside. You are the one who knows. You are the one who carries. You are the one who does not break.

You are seven. You are old. You are the end of the line. You are the final word. You are the silence after the scream.

You do not leave the room. You do not speak. You do not ask for help. You do not ask for justice. Justice is a word for adults. Justice is a system. Justice is a machine. The machine is broken. The machine eats the small. The machine spits out the empty.

You are the empty. You are the hole. You are the missing piece.

You sit on the floor. You hug your knees. You rock back and forth. You rock in the dark. You rock in the silence. You rock in the truth.

The clock ticks. The seconds pass. The minutes bleed. The hours drag. The night is long. The night is endless. The night is the woods. The night is the clearing. The night is the dirt.

You wait. You wait for the light. You wait for the dawn. You wait for the end.

The light comes. It is gray. It is cold. It is weak. It does not warm you. It does not save you. It just is.

You open the door. You step out. You step onto the porch. The air is sharp. It bites your lungs. You breathe. You breathe in the cold. You breathe in the world.

You look at the woods. They are still there. They are waiting. They are patient. They are hungry.

You do not go in. You do not dig. You do not look.

You turn around. You go back inside. You close the door. You lock it. You sit in the corner. You wait.

You are the boundary. You are the wall. You are the alibi.

You are the truth.

And the truth is heavy. And the truth is cold. And the truth is alone.

You are seven. You are forever seven. You are the child who knows. You are the child who stays. You are the child who does not let go.

You hold the shoe in your mind. You hold the dirt in your hands. You hold the hole in your heart.

You do not break. You do not fade. You do not forget.

You are the edge.

And the edge is where the world ends.

And the edge is where the world begins.

And the edge is where you are.

You are alone. You are safe. You are free.

You are lost.