The clinical silence of Dr. Neill's office was punctuated only by the distant hum of city life and the faint chirping of a phone alarm. Eight years. Eight years since his son vanished. The memory was a raw, festering wound that no amount of time, or alcohol, could heal. Jenny, his last patient, rambled on about superficial woes, a stark contrast to the abyss David felt within. He feigned attention, his gaze drifting to the panoramic view of the ocean from his top-floor practice in Sea Point, Cape Town. The setting sun painted the sky in hues of orange and purple, a beauty he could no longer truly appreciate.

As the alarm finally signaled the end of his day, a familiar ache settled in his chest. He prepared to leave, his hand hovering over the door handle, when a memory, sharp and unbidden, flooded his mind. It was a beautiful summer morning, his jogging complete, his wife Vivienne laughing in the kitchen, and their son, John, eager for his first day of school. The image of John's bright, questioning eyes as he asked, 'Dad, am I weird?' echoed in his mind.

David's promise to pick him up on time, a promise broken by a desperate house call to the Thorns. The frantic arrival at school, the growing dread, the empty classroom, and finally, the heartbreaking realization. He was late. John was gone. The memory was a relentless tide, pulling him back to that moment, that raw, agonizing cry: 'Please! Where is my son?'