Mariotte How does one gauge emptiness; calibrate the measure of sorrow? Or is a void defined purely by that which once occupied it? Ron Marks knew the timing of his loss, but not the degree. It took an instant, and when it ended, nothing would ever be the same. When it ended. Later, that idea would make Ron Marks laugh, bitterly and without humor. It never ended. When it began, when that instant came and went—that, he knew with precision. Saturday, November 10. He had gone out into the New Mexico evening at 6:50 p.m. Hayleigh had a soccer game, and Linda planned to take some of the girls out for ice cream at game’s end, but they should be home by seven. In the dying of the day, Ron decided to water the lawn. Family, home stability—these things defined him. Hose in hand, arcing water gently over patchy grass, he watched a family from the next block start across the street. He had never met them, but saw them around the neighborhood. A single mother, he believed, young, with black hair and dark eyes.
