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It is April 7, 1987, and Warren James Kepler is walking home from school. 

He has the same red backpack he wore in kindergarten, and he struggles to zip it up every day, but Mrs. Szyack helps him. There’s a hole worn into the bottom right corner of the bag where his plastic folders have dug into it. “Plastic is good,” his mother had said in that way of hers, like she was trying to be gruff but couldn’t quite cross the line. “It will last you a long time. Worth the investment.” 

Warren didn’t know what ‘investment’ meant, but he had pulled apart the yellowed pages of their dictionary to find out. 

The definition hadn’t helped much. 

There’s an old, stained patch on the upper right side of his backpack, a good few inches above the water bottle compartment on the side– or, where it should have been, if the frayed edges were anything to go off of. The stain had been there since the day he had gotten his backpack, and it would stay there until the day he outgrew it. 

Though, that was approximately 734 days ago, when the straps had to be detached and given an extra strip of fabric, leftover scraps from a blue t-shirt that was simply unfit to be worn anymore. 

The backpack has a streak of yellow on it, now, across one of the straps, made as Warren had pulled it off of its hook on the wall. It matched the yellow smudged across his fingertips, the yellow of the paint slowly drying on a wrinkled page that Warren held with too much caution. Sunflowers– or as close as he could get to sunflowers– were pressed onto the printer paper, petals indented with his fingerprints. It wasn’t as neat as Jen’s, or as colorful as Mikey’s, but it was his.

It is April 7, 1987, and Warren James Kepler is 9 years and 11 months old. 

Warren only knows this because his father had lowered the calendar on the fridge, and shown him a magic trick– with only a flip of a page, it was his birthday. 10. The big double digits. Warren had asked Santa for a new backpack, and had received a letter back that he wouldn’t just get any backpack– he’d get a new, bright red, stain-free backpack. Under one condition: that he turned ten years old, and behaved well for his parents until then. 

Every night, Warren unfolded the note, reread it, neatly folded it, and slid it back underneath his pillow. 

Every day, Warren picked up the broom and dustpan from the corner, and swept until he was certain he didn’t miss a single spot. 

Every evening, his mother and father trailed in crumbs and dirt and dust and complained about how filthy their apartment was. A sharp, biting comment about James Kepler’s salary. A snide retort about Anne Kepler’s housekeeping. Then, one of two things would happen. 

A bout of silence would fall. His parents would sigh, remember he was there, and the topic would switch to his day. The short stories he read in class– had he gotten to speak aloud today? What was this of the Great Chicago Fire– they had never heard of it, he should tell them! Settle around the dining table. Talk until Mom set dinner in front of them. On Fridays? Warm, cooked food. Fridays were Warren’s favorite. 

What were his times tables? What’s 9 times 5? Good! Don’t lean your elbows on the table, Warren. Dot the crumbs off the side of your face. What else did you learn? Guide him to the bathroom. Make sure he brushed his teeth, washed his face, showered, shampooed, dried off. Help him into bed. Tuck him in. Kiss his forehead. Goodnight. 

The second option was worse. Comments evolved into rants evolved into shouts. Warren slunk away those days, tucking himself in the dark corner between the fridge and the cabinets if he couldn’t make it to his room in time. Fall asleep there. Wake up with a painful ache in his neck, dust bunnies on his clothes. Watch Mom leave his room in the morning, yawning and rubbing the crust out of her eyes from sleep. 

It is April 7, 1987, and Warren James Kepler is almost home. 

The walk home is as safe as can be for a nine-year-old in the South Side of Chicago. 

His classmate walked the first block with him a few months ago. Warren hasn’t seen him anywhere since, other than the side of a milk carton. David Hart. H and K were close enough in the alphabet that Kepler had always ended up at the same table as him. Now, Amy Grintz sat at David’s seat. 

It had only been left open for a few days. 

His parents always turned that side of the milk carton away from him. 

Kepler always turned it back. He liked reading. He liked the pictures. He liked getting to know as much as he could. Memorizing it. “Last seen a block from Washington Elementary. Please contact if you have any information.” He tried calling, once. Mentioned that David wore a green coat with a white stripe down the sleeves. Told them that David's favorite color was orange, that he wanted to be an astronaut one day. 

They told him not to call that number again if he didn’t have anything serious to say. 

It is April 7, 1987, and Warren James Kepler opens the door to his family’s apartment. 

They have what his mother irritably calls a “popcorn ceiling,” huffing and puffing at how the “dirt just catches on every inch of it!” Warren has never seen the problem– he thought popcorn was a good thing, even if the ceiling doesn’t look much like it. 

The paint is chipped and yellowing at the edges, like the bill stuck to their fridge. A lot of things are chipped: the floorboards right at the entrance, a rug thrown over it to cover it up. The left side of Warren’s seat at the dining table. The corner of their countertop. Warren likes them. Likes running his hands along them, feeling the difference in texture. They’re comforting. A reminder that this is his family’s apartment, not the Wise’s or the Brandt’s. Kepler’s. Anne, James, and Warren Kepler’s. 

It’s a Tuesday. On Tuesdays, his mom has an early morning shift, and comes home, puts the TV on, and is asleep on the couch by the time Warren gets there. 

The TV is not on. In fact, it’s not even there. There’s a square of clean floor where it once was. Where the couch was. Where the bookshelf was. 

There’s not a single piece of paper on the fridge. Warren glances down at the sunflowers in his hands. There’s not a magnet on the fridge– not even the yellow one that Warren had wanted to use to pin his artwork up. 

The paper slips out of his hands, floats gracelessly to the floor, and lands face down. 

Warren steps forward, and his sneakered foot almost catches on the chip in the hardwood. There’s no rug to protect him, but he manages to stay upright, anyways. He walks to his parents room. He checks the closet. Another dark square where the bed had been and the dust couldn’t settle. His room. 

His room. 

He checks the closet. He pinches himself, hard, then takes his right hand and settles it over his forearm, twists until it’s bright red and he can’t help his eyes from watering. 

He doesn’t wake up. 

The laundry room. The bathroom. Behind the shower curtain, below the sink. The space between the fridge and the cabinets. He opens every drawer. Every cabinet. He steps outside– they had left the doormat out in the hall. He can hear the grittiness of the straw, reads the 'Welcome!’ upside-down, and bursts into tears. 

It was April 7, 1987, and now it is April 7, 2003. 

Though, you wouldn’t know that if you walked into Major Kepler’s office. 

The date is scratched out on the calendar. The picture frames on his desk are turned down. There’s a piece of electrical tape over the corner of his computer. There’s a half empty bottle of whiskey on the desk, and every piece of paperwork that day is signed as the eighth.