Milk Cartons

He had no immediate family in the city, and so spent the rest of the day in his apartment beside the telephone, just in case anyone called on his landline. He did receive a few calls on his cell, mostly old friends no longer living in the city, but kept his replies to them short lest he tie up the line. They faded out as the daylight did. He tried Reichert's landline a few more times-he'd tried his cell phone several times throughout the day, but it never went through, and this just filled him with even more dread that he told himself to shove aside for now-but when the calls did connect, all there was was the answering machine. Toward midnight he realized he was calling for the sole purpose of listening to Reichert's recorded voice, and that was when he made himself stop, because somebody could be trying to call in return. He sat on the couch, not bothering to pull out the bed, for the rest of the night without sleeping, but no one else ever called.

* * * * *

A call did finally come the next day; Matt had just started to doze, but he picked the phone up in the middle of the first ring. He recognized the voice, but had to bite down his disappointment anyway.

"Hey Matt, it's Ross. Business is shit so I'm heading out to look around. I thought maybe you'd come with me."

Matt wasn't sure if Ross-the bartender who'd become a casual friend due to how frequently he dropped in-had any idea what had been going through his head all the previous day and night, though he suspected he might. He agreed to meet him at the corner near the bar, changed his answering machine message to tell anyone calling to contact him on his cell, and left, tossing on a jacket to ward off the slight chill. He hated how he couldn't stop checking the phone as he went, as if afraid he'd turned off the ring, though he knew he hadn't.

Ross was waiting at the corner, hands jammed in his pockets as if he were cold too though the weather was relatively mild. He glanced Matt's way as he approached, not seeming to see him at first, though he then waved as if to gesture him across the nearly barren street. With his shaved head, tattoos, and the chain hanging from his ear, he looked rather like the type of person who would be beating Matt up instead of meeting him to head into the city. Matt saw that the windows of the bar were dark, a CLOSED sign on the door, even though it was likely unnecessary. They fell into step beside each other and started walking briskly.

"My cousin works in Tower Two," Ross said as they walked, their shoulders hunched. "They're putting up pictures all over the buildings and lampposts. My sister Jennie says there's hundreds of them. I'm going to see if he's in there anywhere." He peered at Matt from the corner of his eye; Matt had his phone out and was staring at it blankly. "Have you heard anything?" Ross asked, and Matt knew then that this meeting had been deliberate.

"Not yet," he said, having to force out the "yet."

"I'm sorry," Ross said.

Matt shook his head, not looking at him. "He had the day off. Maybe he went to see his family. To let them know he's okay. He had maybe a dozen or so messages on his machine yesterday morning alone, I bet most were from them."

Ross was silent for a moment, then nodded and turned to face ahead again. "That could be it. Too early to start freaking out any."

Some part of Matt's mind didn't agree with this comment, but he told himself it was reasonable anyway, because he had nothing else left to think. They tried not to look up at the still-smoking sky as they drew nearer, though it was difficult. It took a while for them to realize they were leaving tracks in a fine layer of ash coating the sidewalk; when they glanced around they saw that it coated everything. Ross put his hand up to his nose and mouth; Matt tried not to cough. They passed a few incongruous objects apparently dropped on the sidewalk without a thought-a purse, somebody's bottle of water, an MP3 player-but ignored them all. Pictures started appearing on the posts and windows they passed, and they glanced at them all without seeing anything they were looking for. They at last came within sight of a large group of people milling about on the sidewalk, spilling into the street itself, murmuring and also looking at the walls and lampposts, even the mailboxes, any blank surface that had been available. As soon as the two of them edged their way into the crowd and were able to see the largest area of wall, they halted as if stunned into immobility, staring at innumerable sightless eyes that stared back.

"Jesus," Ross whispered. "There's thousands of them."

Matt was biting the inside of his mouth to keep himself from letting out any noise. For a moment he had no idea what to do, there were so many pictures-most titled MISSING-covering the wall. And it wasn't just this wall, it was everything to the left and right as well, as far as they could see down the sidewalk. Ross nudged his arm and he let out a sharp breath, not even aware that he'd been holding it.

"I'll head this way, you head that way. You've met my cousin before, you know what he looks like. If I see anything I'll come back and let you know."

Matt nodded numbly. He still stood frozen to the spot as Ross carefully picked his way through the crowd, keeping his eyes fixed on the pictures until he disappeared from sight. It was a few moments before Matt could get his legs to work; he made himself turn left, and started walking slowly. The crowd was thinner here; the pictures weren't. He had to turn his head from left to right as they were to both sides of him. Many overlapped; when he couldn't see a photo, he had to halt and lift up the edge of the one atop it to look under. He hated touching them; he hated that people had been forced to cover up others' pictures, almost hiding the ones under them from view; he hated that he hated this, since it wasn't as if anyone had any choice. He passed people carrying yet more pictures, seeking places to put them. For a very long time there wasn't a blank spot visible anywhere.

He lost track of how long he looked; it was only when Ross reappeared that he noticed the angle of the sunlight and shadows and realized it must have been hours. His eyes burned both from looking at so many small photos as well as from the smoke and ash still floating in the air; only now did he realize this, too, and halted to rub at them. Ross grasped his elbow, out of breath; it was a moment before he could speak.

"Todd called; he's okay. He got out early. He's back with my aunt's family. Would've called sooner but couldn't get through."

"That's good," Matt said, his voice flat, emotionless.

Ross leaned sideways to peer into his face. He looked ready to ask something, then didn't. "When we reach the next block I'll take one side and you take the other," he said at last. "Get it done faster that way. There has to be an end to these things somewhere."

Matt didn't bother telling him his fear that perhaps he'd overlooked some of them, what with their sheer numbers and how close they were and how they covered every immovable surface except the sidewalk and street itself; didn't tell him that this fear was also a hope, that maybe missing something was a good thing. Maybe there was nothing to miss. Despite the hopefulness of this thought, it agonized him that there were so many possibilities and he had no idea which was most likely. The city had never seemed so huge before. The sprawling view he'd had from Reichert's balcony flashed in his mind and he bit the inside of his cheek again, stifling the choked sound that almost came out, and nodded. He and Ross parted ways at the next corner, though they still walked parallel to each other, examining the pictures more closely. If he didn't see anything by the time he reached the last of them, Matt told himself, he would go back and look again. He might have missed some; and new pictures were being posted, and perhaps others being removed as people were located, every minute.

After an indeterminate passage of time the photos on Ross's side of the street must have run out, for he rejoined him and started looking at the photos Matt was searching. He coughed a few times, then held up his balled hands and blew on them; with a start Matt saw how dark it had gotten, the chill that had entered the air. The pictures were getting harder to see, but the people who passed were now starting to carry flashlights and candles (Candles? thought Matt), so they remained visible even in the dimness.

He didn't know that Ross had moved on ahead of him until he nearly ran into him where he stood staring up at the wall. Matt turned just as Ross lowered his head to look at him; the expression in his eyes said everything. Heart crowding into his throat, Matt had to keep himself from shoving him aside, looking up at the photos, his eyes scanning them rapidly.

He saw the words before he saw the pictures.

MISSING

Justin Daniel Reichert

NYPD

Ht. 6'3", dk brown hair, hazel eyes

Please contact family with information...

Matt's stare shifted upward to the two photos included above the notice. He didn't have the time to tell himself that it was a big city, there could be more than one Justin Reichert, maybe even more than one in the NYPD. It was a stupid thought, he knew it. Stupid thoughts seemed to be all he had by now. One of the photos was a formal portrait, a headshot of a man in a police dress uniform. The other one was of the same man, not in uniform, wearing casual clothes now as he seemed to be horseplaying with a lighter-haired boy, both of them laughing at the camera. 6'3". Lean build. Hazel eyes. Matt couldn't have described the feeling that spread through him if he'd tried. It was as if everything inside him were disappearing, ceasing to exist; he would have wondered how he managed to stay standing, if he'd been in any mind to. Ross hadn't stopped staring at him, though Matt couldn't see him. He opened his mouth, though no sound came out.

"Justin," he managed to whisper after several seconds had slipped by.

"I'm sorry," he heard Ross murmur.

He had the day off, Matt's mind told itself. He'd lost his voice again and couldn't say it out loud. Ross was talking; the words faded into his consciousness where they drifted as hazy as the ash in the air.

"...Passed a couple of people looking for their son or something, they found his picture on the wall but then he called them and he was okay. It's all chaos and shit. Lines will get crossed. I'm betting most of these people aren't even missing. It'll be like this till the phones are working again. And hospitals. There must be slews of people going there. Maybe he's there someplace. Maybe he's unconscious or got hit in the head and doesn't remember anything yet. Shit, he could be in that pile looking for people and his family just hasn't found out yet. This sign doesn't mean anything. He can be anywhere, just fine." He reached up toward the picture and ran his finger along the phone number, then took out his cell phone. "I'll call the family and see if I can find anything out."

Matt wasn't even aware that he'd reached out and clasped both phone and Ross's hand, stopping him from dialing. When Ross looked at him he spoke, though his voice sounded like it was coming from somewhere else.

"They don't know about me. He'll call if he can."

Ross stared at him for a moment, biting his lip. He gently removed Matt's hand and shoved the phone back in his pocket.

"I'll start looking in the hospitals, then. Say I'm a relative. You head back and keep an eye on your phone. I'll call if I find out anything."

Matt nodded. Ross turned and jogged off down the sidewalk. Matt's head was in such a fog that by the time he reached his apartment building, he couldn't even remember having walked there. Instead of heading for his apartment, he went back to the roof, and turned to look at the view that was nowhere near as impressive or all encompassing as that from Reichert's balcony. Still, he saw enough.

None. No fucking milk cartons.

* * * * *

He stayed in his apartment all day the thirteenth. Staring numbly at the same images played over and over and over again on the TV. Not bothering to eat, not bothering to sleep except for when he happened to doze off, which was never for very long. Every time he saw Reichert's eyes he awoke again, glanced toward his window without a view, then back at the TV. Ross called him early in the day. No news from the hospitals, except for the news that practically nobody was showing up. There were beds, there were doctors, there were people lined up to give blood-but there was almost nobody needing a bed, a doctor, a blood donation. The hours slipped by-Matt knew from Reichert telling him himself that the first forty-eight hours were the most important ones, in a missing person case-yet the accounts of missing persons being found did not come in. Eventually, Matt stopped hearing what the newscasters were saying; his eyes stayed fixed on the ever-increasing number of dead and disappeared. Hundreds. Thousands. It was incomprehensible. If he hadn't been so numb, he wouldn't have believed it. It simply wasn't possible. Where were they? People didn't just disappear.

"People don't just disappear," he whispered to himself, and kept repeating it throughout the day. He dozed fitfully at night, awoke the next morning with nothing changed but the growing numbers on the TV. For some reason, this morning he stopped hoping. Perhaps he hadn't hoped all along, and just hadn't been able to admit it. As his mind woke itself, all the feverish reassurances he'd been giving himself over the past few days flitted past, and he nearly cringed at how pathetic they all were. He could almost hear Reichert criticizing his wishful thinking, just as he'd criticized him when leaning over the balcony to stare at what was no longer there. Matt had never been one to feel shame in any great degree, but somehow, all the pointless hoping he'd been engaging in ashamed him, simply because it was something Reichert would have rolled his eyes at. Perhaps it was an insult to keep hoping such stupid things. Matt made himself get up, go into his kitchenette, make himself breakfast that he didn't care to eat but did so anyway. Ross called him again, but he didn't pick up. There was nothing in the message he left anyway, just the request to know if he was okay. Matt didn't call him back; not because he was trying to keep the line free, but because there was no point in it.

By evening, he wondered why he'd hoped at all. The hollowness started to slowly fill in again; he stood in his kitchenette making something to drink, fully aware that when this phase passed, it would become even worse, as if this were the eye of a storm; he decided not to dwell on it. He stopped staring at the numbers, stopped staring at the repeating footage, stopped listening to the details, just letting the voices drift past, taking in a general bit of news here and there. As the sunlight started to fade he called Ross back lest he worry too much, heard that his cousin was doing fine, told Ross he was okay in return, even managing to feign a tone of voice that wasn't so flat, or was it feigned at all? He'd never believed in dwelling on things one couldn't change. It didn't matter what they were. Empty wishing never got anyone anything.

Just around nightfall, a bit of news different from all that had been playing the past three days, an actual survivor being found near the edge of the rubble field, what had once been Tower One. Matt's eyes flicked up toward the screen, then back down to the counter so he wouldn't chop his fingers as he cut up some fruit and carefully dumped it in the blender. Between blending he heard scattered phrases-"-adult male-" "-critical condition in an undisclosed hospital-" "-no further identification pending notification of the family." At least one family would be resting better that night, Matt thought, pouring the drink-he blinked when he saw that he'd poured two glasses. A memory flickered in his head-Reichert frowning at the drink Matt had prepared for him, calling it "fruity," Matt calling him "fruity," Reichert rolling his eyes but drinking it anyway-and then died. Matt poured the second glass back in the blender and put it in the fridge.

He visited Ross's bar the next day. There were very few people to be seen, no music, no chattering or laughing. Ross seemed glad to see him, again asked how he was holding up. Did he hear? They'd found somebody. A "miracle survivor," the news kept calling him, seeing as no one else had been recovered alive. Matt nodded at each comment. He'd watched it on the news last night. But it had been updated since then, Ross informed him. The survivor was with the NYPD, they said; had he heard? Matt shook his head, he hadn't heard that, then shrugged it off. Of course the survivor would be a first responder, he told him-a firefighter, a police officer-what with how many of them had been there. At least some family would be resting better, he did tell the bartender before he left; Ross watched him go but said nothing else. Matt visited one of the few stores that had opened back up so far, bought groceries to tide him over until the next week, and went back home. He stood on the roof for a while. It was still smoking. It was strange. That evening, he checked the news just out of curiosity, but there was nothing new on the so-called "miracle survivor," and no news of others. He switched the TV off and went to bed, where he actually slept, without dreaming anything that he could recall.

Matt had never even been one for watching TV that much, but it was on now practically every hour he was at home and awake. He tuned out much of what was airing as he'd heard it already; he found his lack of concern or interest in much of what was going on to be curious, wondering if this was normal, and when his mood might shift. For some reason, he felt like drinking a lot of smoothies, as he wasn't very hungry, and there was something vaguely soothing about them, even though he didn't need much soothing. He briefly glanced at the updated number of dead/missing, listened to a few accounts of those who'd managed to flee before the second Tower came down, but stopped watching when several tearful people held up photographs toward the camera crews, pleading for information. He didn't like seeing people weeping and begging. That never got anything done.

In the afternoon he heard another brief mention of the miracle survivor but nothing much new. He wondered why the news insisted on reporting things that were no longer news, and switched to a sitcom for a half hour, then to a different news broadcast. Dozed. Went up to the rooftop to look across what was visible of the city. Would it never stop smoking? Wondered just how long a fire could burn before having to go out. Puzzled over how long it would take for two 110-story buildings to burn to ash and cinders. Went back downstairs to prepare the inevitable smoothie, half-listening to snippets of newscast in between blendings.

"The identity of the 'miracle survivor'-"

"-fall of Tower One has finally been released-"

"-member of the New York City Police Department-"

"-Det. Justin Reichert-"

The glass container of the blender shattered when the entire thing hit the floor, spattering juice across the kitchen. Matt's hands were empty but still poised as if he were holding it. It felt like all the blood, all the sensation had left his arms.

"-witnesses reported as arriving on scene and helping several people incapacitated by debris-"

It isn't him. Stuff like that only happens in movies. Stupid movies.