Fifty of us walked, fingertip to gloved fingertip, through the sodden snow, looking for anything out of place: a mound of shapes, a candy wrapper, the body of a thirteen-year-old boy. Our footprints left wavering lines behind us. We didn’t speak. And if we glanced at each other, it was quick and desperate. This was the fourth day of searching. It was March 8th, my daughter’s twelfth birthday, and the missing boy was a student at her middle school.