“Dammit, Margie. Where could she be?”

William Randolf Sloan stared at the exposed wood that had recently become a familiar stain to his usually dark-oiled floor. Through his now-worn slippers, he rubbed his third toe against the grain that had served as his pacing path since receiving that mysterious phone call two weeks ago.

“Get me another pair, Margie.” He kicked off the offending footwear and sat heavily in his leather office chair. “Two and a half weeks. Nothing. Not a word. Where could she be?”

Margie gathered up the slippers, her glasses slipping off her slender nose. “Mr. Sloan. This is the second pair you’ve thrown out. I really think that maybe you should see a doctor.”

“What is a doctor going to do, Margie? A doctor isn’t going to bring my little girl back! What a ridiculous suggestion,” barked William Randolf Sloan.

Margie pushed her glasses back to their homey niche. She adjusted the chain to properly balance the two seashells that dangled from the gold rims. Quietly she cleared her throat and subtly popped a knot in her frail spine. She had not had a chance to lay down for more than an hour in the last two weeks.

“I think that maybe you should see a doctor. Maybe he could prescribe you something for your nerves.”

William Randolf Sloan slammed his fist against his desk. “My nerves are just fine.”

Margie clutched at the slippers, her lips pressed in a small line. Again, she subtly popped a small knot that suddenly appeared in her neck.