I stare at the list of 158 missing persons cases splashed across the screen.
34 unsolved. Solve rate: 78.5%.
Two names sit in bold—Diego Ramirez. Jose Rodriguez. Links to my notes blink beneath them, like they're still calling me back.
I exhale slowly. Six years. I feel it.
I was fifteen when Roberto left. That morning—I woke up naked, the bed cold, a note in his place. I felt it then.
When I stood over the burnt corpse that was supposed to be him—I felt it again.
Irreversible. Irrefutable. Change.
But why now? My hand presses over my racing heart before the thought fully forms—like my body already knows. Him. The realization lands sharp. I'm heartbroken again. Just like that morning.
My gaze drifts back to the screen. Not curiosity. Not obsession. Not the pull of unsolved cases clawing at me. Not the need to dig deeper. None of it. Just… exhaustion.
A quiet, suffocating kind. It's time to let go. Of what… I'm not sure. Of Roberto? Of him? Of this warehouse? This life I've been living for the past six years? I don't know.
I lean back slowly, turning in my chair as I take in the space around me. The warehouse stretches wide and empty. Right… I chose this place because it reminded me of another. A second floor. An abandoned building on a hill. Hidden by trees and cactus in East L.A. Home. Mine and Roberto's.
Another breath leaves me, heavier this time. I save everything to the cloud. Power down the system. The screens go dark. I flick off the lights and step outside.
Sunlight hits instantly—warm, blinding. Salt lingers in the air. The ocean isn't far. I draw in a deep breath. Then another. I don't know what's changing. But I know how to survive the shift.
My phone lights up the moment I unlock it—messages flooding in, stacking over each other. Familiar. Loud. Alive. My friends. I let out a quiet, amused laugh and open the thread.
Anat: Coming in hot!
The twenty-person group chat explodes. Messages fly faster than I can read.
Valerie: People, a little help here.
Beth: Why are you so against polyamory?
James: Some people are born with polyamory in their DNA.
Valerie's sister-in-law: I don't believe that. Monogamy is the only right way.
Anat: It's not about right or wrong.
Karla: This again… 🙄
Valerie's sister-in-law: How can you prove that? Everyone is monogamous. There's proof everywhere.
Beth: Proof… or programming?
Valerie's sister-in-law: Who here is even "born poly"?
Anat: Me.
James: Me.
Karla: …maybe?
I sigh and type.
Polyamory is as much in my DNA as the color of my hair and the shape of my teeth. No amount of social conditioning, religion, or love can make me monogamous.
James: What she said.
Anat: Exactly.
Karla: Yeah, that tracks.
Valentina: Why am I even in this group chat?
Harry Irvin's BF: Please remove me from this chat.
Irvin Pansexual: There is no objective taxonomy of love—no moral hierarchy that renders one form "right" and another "wrong." Love simply is. If any axis of evaluation exists, it lies not in its structure, but in its nature: whether it is conditioned or unconditioned.
Anat: LMAO
James: Preach Dr. Blackwood
Valerie's sister-in-law: Fuck all of you! Absolutely not. No one is ever going to convince me that I should just sit there while my husband runs around sticking his dick into anything that moves. That's disgusting.
Beth: You're reacting to something none of us said. No one here is asking you to accept that. I wouldn't accept that either. What you're describing is cheating. Lack of respect. Lack of honesty. Polyamory isn't that. It's built on consent. On transparency. On mutual agreement. That's why it's called ethical non-monogamy.
Linda Orgy Queen: We organizing another orgy on Sunday?
Valerie: Linda, wrong group chat.
Linda Orgy Queen: Shit! Sorry.
A laugh escapes me.
I lock my phone. The debate will go on without me. Valerie trying to defend her brother. Her sister-in-law calling it cheating. The rest of us turning it into philosophy, identity, war.
It always does. And honestly? They've got this.
My extroverted, chaotic, unapologetically poly friends could probably convince a fly it was born to be a horse if they tried.
###
Sitting there in the doctor's office next to my mother, I realize my parents are what anchor me through change as well. When everything shifts, you hold on to what doesn't. My love for them—constant, unmoving—something I can always return to.
My gaze drifts past her, taking in the space around us.
The physical therapy clinic opens wide—an airy layout filled with specialized equipment, far more advanced than any typical gym. This one, in particular, is female-focused, so most of the physical therapists are women. Dr. Shirley Sahrmann, the top DPT in Los Angeles County, reviews my mother's chart as my mother looks around the room with the curiosity of a child.
Dr. Sahrmann glances up, a look of hesitation crossing her face, as if she needs convincing when she looks at my mother. She begins, "I'm sorry... your mother's case—"
"My mother bore seven children and has never known what an orgasm is."
An arranged marriage to a man ten years older than her, and while my father is a wonderful parent, he is a terrible husband. She focuses on me, so I continue, "She can't differentiate types of pain. A paper cut, in her own words, is 'a lot less painful than child labor.' Muscle soreness feels to her like a punch in the stomach. Sharp, dull, chronic, bursts, tingling, pinches, and cuts are all just pain. She's unaware of her body and lacks the ability to verbalize her own sensations."
"That can be a challenge when—" she says.
"She's illiterate in English, and barely proficient in Chinese and Korean. There are different words for different kinds of pain in those languages, but she doesn't know them. You could explain how the heart has four chambers and the differences between veins and arteries in Chinese or Korean, but it would elude her. Anatomy and physiology would only confuse her. She's uneducated and ignorance, and I don't say that to be judgmental. I say it to present the reality of the challenges you'll face if you choose to work with her. You'd need to simplify everything to what a child could understand, even though she's sixty-nine."
Dr. Sahrmann smiles, the way medical professionals often do, and says, "You're a great advocate for her. She's lucky to have you as a daughter. We're—"
"We're not here because of her frozen shoulder. We're here because I suspect she has uterine prolapse, recurring UTIs due to vaginal atrophy, and a host of other complications caused by her postmenopausal condition and late childbirths."
"I see. A lot of times, it's misdiagnosed—"
"It has been, in her case. I've been back and forth with her family doctor, who happens to be an older Korean male doctor my father loves and refuses to let my mother change. It's been two years and a lot of my time. We've been to every doctor investigating her different internal organs except for the OB/GYN, where she truly needs care."
Dr. Sahrmann leans forward on her desk and says, "How can we help?"
It's exactly what I wanted to hear, so I reply, "I'm sorry if I seem frustrated."
"I understand why you feel that way. It's perfectly normal. This is why we exist. Our facility researches and specializes in female reproductive health and its long-term effects. What can we do to help?"
"I know that you only take on special, challenging cases. My mother... due to the lack of opportunities she's had in her life, is a challenge for most average PTs. And as you can see, I don't fully know what else she needs help with. We need to switch her primary doctor to someone, preferably female, who can understand her case. I've researched you and read everything you've published, so I know you have someone in your network you could recommend."
"I can try to find someone who takes her insurance."
"That's not necessary. Please give me a list as if money isn't an issue. I'll figure out the rest. Now, about her frozen shoulder—"
"We'll make an exception. We can start her physical therapy next week. Her insurance pays eighty percent, and the other twenty—"
"I'll pay."
"We have a special program to help manage payments if needed. There are generous donors funding our research, such as MM Corps and others."
"Thank you for agreeing to take on her case."
We shake hands, and she whisks away to her next appointment. My mother points at the leg curl machine and asks in Chinese, "What does that do?"
I roll my eyes but couldn't help feeling amused. My phone dings.
I almost ignore it. Almost.
Jason:Please come tomorrow at 7 pm, room twenty-one.
My chest tightens.
So the end begins.