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I spend the next three days walking all over Manhattan. I start in the Village and walk lower to Downtown and Battery Park, before doubling back and worming through every street until Midtown. Midtown is a mad house and trying to find anyone in that mass is comical. I walk for hours, stopping only for the bathroom and sustenance. I spot familiar people—kids from class, kids from parties, kids from bars—but they're not her, so I continue on. I think I spot her at least a dozen times: a blond, backpack-toting woman, but when I step in her path, it's always someone else, and she always thinks I'm crazy.

Of course I'm irrational. If anything was wrong she could call me. But in the back of my mind, I worried she wouldn't.

Mark thought I was acting crazy. "She's fine man," he assured me a half dozen times, but it didn't placate the gnawing feeling in my gut that New York is not a safe haven for a teenage runaway. And this girl would not make it out alive.

I neglected my Friday shift at NYSTEM and then neglect the three phone calls from Dr. Weaver. I might be fired from my volunteer position, but I didn't care. Something about Meredith makes me not care. Maybe, for the first time since my life changed, maybe I can be more than the guy in the bar taking home the girl in the bar. Maybe I could make a difference and change a life.

Maybe that life will be my own.

By the end of Sunday, my third day looking for her, I've turned up empty handed. She's out there, somewhere, and I'll never find her. This is New York after all.

I meet Mark at Heartland Brewery a little after four. I don't really remember how the chain restaurant, right in Port Authority, became our favorite spot. Somehow, along the way, we realized we loved watching people meander in and out of the city. We realized we liked watching men get drunk on a Friday night after they missed the early bus. It became something more than just a brew pub with an unfortunate location.

He's already finishing his first beer as I take a seat and orders two more.

Somehow Mark's always at the bar long before me.

"You look like shit," he remarks.

"Thanks man. I feel awesome."

I feel the worst I've felt in a long, long time. The last three days have been filled with so much anxiety and panic. I don't even know Meredith the Runaway, but knowing that I didn't do enough to keep her safe is making me a crazy person. Plus she reminds me of Amelia. So I haven't slept much and I've basically been eating only McDonald's French fries and drinking beer. I'm running on empty and still, I have nothing to show for it.

"No luck finding your runaway?"

I shake my head, nod to the bartender as he puts down my drink, and sling back a long sip. "None at all. I think she might have left the Village, which makes it impossible to find her."

"After what she went through, I'd leave the Village too. Shit, I'd get the fuck out of New York."

"Do you think she did? Leave New York, I mean."

Mark looks up at the big screen TV over the bar. He shrugs. "Maybe. But it doesn't make a lot of sense unless she ended up in another city. There's not much on the outskirts besides Stepford wives and white picket fences."

He's right, of course. Even if Meredith did head up to White Plains; down to Hoboken; or out to Mineola, there isn't much around and her safety is still in jeopardy. "She could be halfway to LA by now."

"Or halfway to the moon," Mark suggests. "Isn't it a good thing though? You don't have to deal with this."

"It's not okay. Even if she is in Philadelphia or Boston or Chicago, I still don't know if she's okay."

"Look, not to sound insensitive, but why do you care?"

It's impossible to put into words. But I try, "I don't know who she is or why she ran, but I have a feeling it's not good. You saw her. She's pale and thin and hadn't had a real shower in what looked like weeks. She's young and clearly vulnerable. She's alone, which makes me wonder how her home life is, and someone has to give her a leg-up. I'm not qualified or anything, but I just can't sit by and let some sixteen-year-old girl lose everything, including her life, because somewhere down the line someone treated her badly." I shake my head. "I just want to help."

Mark stares for a second and then breaks into an inappropriate smile. "Shit man, you're so insightful and passionate."

"Fuck you," I grumble and chug half my beer. Apparently, I just need to be alone in my anxiety.

"No, look, sorry man," Mark says quickly. He's put on his apology face. "I didn't mean it like that. Or, well, I did, but it was shitty to say. I get it," he says. "I get the fear and the uncertainty. You saved her and had the chance to do it again, and you're freaked. I get that. But why this girl? Why not save one of the other thousands of runaways or homeless people here?"

I've been asking myself that since I heard her scream. "I have no idea, but maybe I see potential there."

"Potential for what?"

I shake my head. "I'm not sure yet."

I don't have any more time to worry about Meredith because when I return to my apartment, I have a note stuck to me door. At first I think it's from her, but I'm quickly disappointed.

Derek,

Meet me at the Starbucks next to the Christopher Street station.

-Dad

I can't keep him waiting.

I make the two minute journey with only a slight drag in my step. My father and I have a great relationship, don't get me wrong, but whenever he stops by it worries me. I don't have time to deal with his troubles because I have plenty of my own to deal with; mainly trying to find Meredith the Runaway. Maybe my father is the perfect distraction.

As usual, Starbucks is full of semi-intelligent looking NYU students, all pretentiously reading Proust and William Blake and discussing the philosophy of the best New York cookie: Milk & Cookies or Jacque Torres? (Milk & Cookies!) My dad has nestled himself between two incredibly close tables with two coffee cups in front of him. He looks up as he takes a sip and I can tell he's seen me. His blue eyes are as expressive as mine.

My dad was once a dashing young man, as my mother loves to remind us constantly. Dad had been in the military at the age of eighteen and stayed on a base in North Carolina the entire time. They met just before he left, wed less than seven months later, and had Kathleen not long after. My dad was a strapping young man, with no education, but an ability to work wood. They worked hard and, well, you know where they ended up. Mom never worked, even though she probably should have, but she was busy raising five children and running a household. Now we hire people to run our household, and I suspect, if we weren't old enough already, Mom might have hired someone to raise us as well.

"Derek," he booms and shakes my hand. A few people at the local tables glance over. The volume of my dad's voice is something you have to get used to. "Good to see you and so soon after I stopped by." I wonder if my dad would have just let my coffee grow cold if it took me longer to get his note.

I take a sip. The coffee tastes weird in my mouth after beer. "So, what's up?"

"Nothing really. Just wanted to see my only son." He flashes me a winning smile.

I play into his bit. "Yeah? How long are you here for? We could go to dinner."

Dad shakes his head, "Probably not that long. Your mom wants me home by eight so we can see a movie together." I nod, not really knowing what I could say back. Dad doesn't give me time to worry, though. "How's the new job?"

Ah, that's what this is about.

"The first day was fine." A lie, but at least I went.

"And the second?" he prompts.

I sigh and glance out the window. I love him, of course, but his need to be so involved is more of a curse than a blessing. "Don't pretend you didn't already know I missed my second day."

"Dr. Weaver is a good friend of mine," Dad starts, but I've heard it all before.

"Am I fired?" I interrupt.

"No, you're not fired. Der, why did you miss work already? Were you out with Mark all night?"

Mom and Dad don't pretend they don't know what's going on in my life. They read my credit card statements, after all. They probably see the many purchases from local bars, clubs, and liquor stores, and being that they're not idiots, they've put two and two together.

Either way, my parents are privy to the way I lead my life and definitely privy to the way Mark leads his. His parents aren't usually as understanding as mine. There's been talk of inheritance slipping away and trust funds being cut off.

"I wasn't out with Mark." I weigh my options. I could lie and say I slept through my alarm and the various phone calls, but with my shift starting at noon, it would be near impossible to write those four hours as sleeping in. I could tell the truth. But something about Meredith missing makes me want to keep her a secret.

I don't get a chance to lie.

"Derek, I honestly don't care why you didn't make it to work, but I can swear to you that if you miss another day, you'll be fired. You need this internship for medical school. Are beers and bars really worth more than your future career?"

"Of course not." Nothing is more important than my career.

Dad nods, "Good. I just want you to find a balance between your studies and your social life. You're twenty-one, you deserve to have some fun, but you're also on the path to a very important career."

"I know that." I feel like a child, being reprimanded for taking an extra cookie.

"Your mother and I are so proud of you. We're proud of all of you." I wonder if he counts Sophia in this list—even though she's off gallivanting in Europe—but I suspect he does. "Kathleen and Nancy are excelling and you're following very closely in their footsteps." Sophia is excluded, of course. "And Amelia, of course, is the top of her class. We don't know how we raised five such overachieving children, but we're so, so proud of you. I am proud of you. I just don't want to see all your hard work thrown away."

I sigh and glance out the window.

"Did I ever tell you about my days before marrying your mother?" I shake my head, even though he's told me hundreds of times. "I was wild, much like your friend Mark." He smirks. "I drank and smoked and slept with any woman who crossed my path. But then I joined the military and shaped up."

"Are you telling me to join the military?"

"No, Derek, I'm not telling you to join the military, but something has to give. You can't live this way and get a medical degree. You'll never make it."

I curl my fingers into a fist at my side. "Thanks for the confidence boost, dad."

"It's just a fact of life, Derek. I know you will succeed admirably as a surgeon, but you can't be cutting people open with a massive hangover. You can't pass the tests while drinking at a bar. You have to focus, Derek."

"I got it, Jesus dad. Did you really come all the way here just to belittle me?"

"I'm not belit—"

"Are you really going to fight me on this right now? Seriously? You're belittling me. I know I live my life the wrong way. I know I shouldn't be so concerned with beer and bars and girls, but it's the summer. It's this my time to have fun?"

"You still have responsibilities, Derek."

I stand up. "I'm leaving. Thanks for the coffee."

As I turn, he calls after me. I continue to walk away like a five-year-old child. Father knows best, maybe, but father needs to learn how to give a child space. Ever since I decided to attend Columbia as a pre-med student, my father has been riding me and riding me, and the string holding us together is wearing thin. I can't live up to the expectations Kathleen and Nancy laid out. I'm not them and I may be taking a different path, but the end result will be the same.

My father's lack of education (and my mother's by some extent) has made him prone to being overbearing. He hovers and accuses and doesn't realize when his presence in my life is too much—too over-the-top. Dad believes he's doing what's best for us, but breathing down my neck at every turn is a far cry from being a good parent. I need to live my own mistakes.

Dad catches up to me. "We don't walk away during an argument," he scolds.

"I'm going home. I'll see you for Kathleen's birthday." That gives me three weeks to cool down.

"Talk to me, Derek."

I turn and stare at my father. We're carbon copies of one another physically. He's just an inch shorter than me, but has the same dark, dark hair and blue eyes. We're built the same too, with lean muscles and not much brute strength. Sometimes I even see my own expressions on his face.

I sigh slowly to calm myself and then say: "I appreciate you worrying about me Dad, but it's unnecessary. I'm an adult and whether or not you agree with my lifestyle, it doesn't matter. I have a four-point-oh in school and I attend every single class. I missed my internship last week, yes, but the situation was important and I won't miss it again. I might not lock myself away and study every hour of the day like Nancy or Kathleen, but I'll end up a surgeon, so who cares how I got there?"

"I just wish you wouldn't have missed Friday."

I nod, "I'll call and apologize today."

"That'd be good." He squeezes my shoulder. "I should get home. Your mother is waiting."

"Try not to worry about me Dad. Worry about Amelia. I'm sure she loves it."

Dad looks to the sky and slowly shakes his head, "Your sister may have perfect grades, but she's boy crazy."

I smirk, "It runs in the family."

"Yeah, I guess it does," he laughs, gives me a quick (very manly!) hug and heads down the stairs into the subway.

With my dad gone, and only a few hours left to look for Meredith, I cut across Bleeker Street to 6th Avenue and up to Washington Square Park. As I walk along West 4th, I decide tonight is my last night of searching. I can walk block after block, and I will never find her. New York is too big and she is too small in the grand scheme of things. And, there's no guarantee she's still here. Maybe she's run off to Chicago or Boston, or maybe she's returned home. For all I know, she's sitting next to her parents on a porch swing, apologizing for her stupidity.

But with a few hours of sunlight left, I walk the streets because I have to know I at least tried. It's like when a smoker tastes his last cigarette, and he can quit afterwards because he enjoyed it like his last. I walk through the park, savoring the search, because I know it's my last day of trying to find her.

If she wanted to be found, she would have been at my apartment.

The park is bustling, even with school out for summer. Locals, not of the college caliber, enjoy the early evening sun and bask along the central fountain. Tourists snap photos of the archway and the trees and the sky. Children play in the fountain and run up and down the stone seating. Couples lay out on blankets and men in Speedos sunbathe with a beer in hand. Normally I'd love to sit down on one of the benches and observe, but with no indication that she's here, I move on.

I decide to walk up until I'm on 5th and trail along the high-end stores. It's doubtful that she'd find herself in such a well-manicured area, but it's one of the few spots I have yet to scour. Most of the pedestrians are carrying bags marked Mark Jacobs, Armani, and Fendi, while a slight few have Gap, H&M, and Zara. Everyone has a phone clutched in hand or pressed to an ear, and almost half the crowd has a Starbucks cup in hand. It's disgusting how materialistic this city is, but it's nice to see that some people still have money in the horrible economy.

I cut across to Times Square and fight my way through the crowds. The local to tourist population is 1 to 8,000 here, and I desperately look for someone not holding a camera and wearing a fanny pack on his or her front. Parents scream for their children and children chase after pigeons and taxis and other people. The place is chaos and I feel a brain aneurism forming. I jump on the 1 train, desperate to be as far away from the neon lights as possible, and ride 10 minutes back home.

It's still light out, but I'm exhausted from days without sleep, and I just want to lie down on my couch with a beer and go to bed before 10. As I round the corner at Bleeker, I see her sitting on my stoop. My heart begins to race. She sees me and stands up. She looks worse than last time, and it's only been three days. She seems dirtier, and thinner, and broken.

I pick up the pace.

As I approach my steps, she walks down two until we're standing just a foot from one another. Her eyes are sad. Her posture is defeated.

All I want to do is hug her. I'm so happy she's okay!

"Can I stay here?" she asks. Her voice is rough.

I nod. "Are you hungry?"

Her eyes light up, and I take that as a yes.