Lost.

Cacia says, "Is she lost?  Lost?...Where is she?"

"Lost," I say.  "We don't know where she is.  We're going to keep looking."

"Will she come home now?  I miss her."

"I don't know baby.  I miss her too."

The dog's gone missing.  

Cacia's Mom, my sister, is gone too.  We know loss.  We also know doubt and uncertainty.  

"Where is she?  Does she miss us?  Will she be home soon?"  

Where Cacia's voice is small, mine is steady.  Controlled.  "We'll do everything we can to find her.  We hope she'll find her way home.  Now it's time for bed, so pick a bubby.  I love you."

In my chest, nagging, my voice echos hers, "Where is she?  Is she lost?  What now?  What do I do?  What's happened?  Is she lost?  What can I do?  Whose fault, whose fault?  My fault?  The door was open.  Did I leave it open?  These things happen, it's no ones fault.  mine.  should have known.  should have done differently."

She woke half way through the night when the light was blue and the air sweating.  She was screaming.

I crawled into her bed and we fell asleep, tangled in a shared dream.  "Where is she?"