My niece's son. My sister's grandson. My boy. Of course he's a grown man now, old enough, whip-smart enough to take care of himself. A tiny worry fissure opened when my first husband––Antho's Uncle George who always knows how Anthony is––stopped responding to my messages. And then Anthony's sister, who keeps track of everyone in the family, said she didn't have his number anymore, and the tiny fissure spider veined. How could I lose him like an old sock? From toddler at home with mom and big sister to CASA to great grand parents to Aunt Dawn. Sitting at my kitchen table, head bowed like a wrongly-convicted prisoner. "Why was I the one that got sent away?" To high school not-quite-graduate towering over me in my garage, exhaust fumes scenting our mutual exhaustion, me sending him back to his mom. "God, Anthony, I don't know what to do with you anymore. Maybe your mom does." One last "love you" and "love you too." And me sitting at my kitchen table, head bowed. Collapsing in the cereal aisle at the grocery store. I failed him. Maybe one more school, one more social worker, one more therapist. Whenever he walked through my dreams, because they did not end in death or violence, I took the dreams to mean he was alright. I stopped believing in dreams. I need concrete evidence: citizen journalists with cell phones have been reminding me that young black men cannot be presumed to be okay. And my center where I used be clear as glass fractured into how do I find him and what if he doesn't want to be found and are you crazy it's always good to tell someone they are thought about in the middle of the night. I need to hear that bass voice, which I still decades after the fact cannot believe dropped from a kindergarten falsetto. Where are you, Anthony? Where's my boy?