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This project took me twenty, twenty-five minutes. But a busy twenty-five minutes. I was occupied and apparently not paying attention to my toddler because when I walked into the family room to announce it was time for dinner, my child wasn’t there.

I didn’t panic right away. I’d like to say it was because I was a trained police officer, but it had more to do with being Sophie’s mom. Sophie started running at thirteen months and hadn’t slowed down since. She was the child who disappeared in grocery stores, bolted away from park swing sets, and made a quick beeline through a sea of legs in a crowded mall, whether I was following or not. In the past six months, I’d already lost Sophie several times. In a matter of minutes, however, we always found each other again.

I started with the basics—a quick walk through our tiny one bedroom. I called her name, then for good measure, checked the cupboards in the bathroom, both closets, and under the bed. She wasn’t in the apartment.

I checked the front door, which, sure enough, I’d forgotten to bolt, meaning the entire apartment complex had just become fair game. I crossed the hall, cursing myself silently and feeling the growing frustration that comes from being an overstretched single parent, responsible for all things at all times, whether I was up to the challenge or not.

I knocked on Mrs. Ennis’s door. No, Sophie wasn’t there, but she swore she’d just seen Sophie playing outside.

Outside I went. Sun had gone down. Streetlights blazed, as well as the spotlights on the front of the apartment building. It was never truly dark in a city like Boston. I took that to heart as I walked around the squat brick complex, calling my daughter’s name. When no laughing child came running around the corner, no high-pitched giggles erupted from a nearby bush, I grew more concerned.

I started to shiver. It was cold, I didn’t have a jacket, and given that I remembered seeing Sophie’s raspberry-colored fleece hanging next to the door in our apartment, she didn’t have a coat either.

My heart accelerated. I took a deep, steadying breath, trying to fight a growing well of dread. The whole time I’d been pregnant with Sophie, I’d lived in a state of fear. I hadn’t felt the miracle of life growing in my body. Instead, I saw the photo of my dead baby brother, a marble white newborn with bright red lips.

When I’d gone into labor, I didn’t think I’d be able to breathe through the terror clutching my throat. I would fail, my baby would die, there was no hope, no hope, no hope.

Except, then there was Sophie. Perfect, mottled red, screaming loudly Sophie. Warm and slippery and achingly beautiful as I cradled her against my breast.

My daughter was tough. And fearless and impulsive.

You didn’t panic with a kid like Sophie. You strategized: What would Sophie do?

I returned to the apartment complex, performed a quick door-to-door canvass. Most of my neighbors weren’t home from work yet; the few that answered hadn’t seen Sophie. I moved fast now, footsteps with purpose.

Sophie liked the park and might head there, except we’d already spent an afternoon playing on the swings and even she’d been ready to leave at the end. She liked the corner store and was positively fascinated by the Laundromat—she loved to watch the clothes spin.

I decided to head back upstairs. Another quick walk-through of our apartment to determine if anything else might be missing—a special toy, her favorite purse. Then I’d grab my car keys and tour the block.

I made it just inside the door, then discovered what she’d taken: The keys to my police cruiser were no longer sitting in the change dish.

This time, I hauled ass out of the apartment and down the front steps. Toddlers and police cruisers didn’t mix. Forget the radio, lights, and sirens in the front. I had a shotgun in the trunk.

I ran to the passenger’s side, peering in from the sidewalk. The interior of the cruiser appeared empty. I tried the door, but it was locked. I walked around more