Selections from the Book

Pages 56-57 E-mail

Bill Anderson moved slowly as if in pain, a young man grown suddenly old. He had been strong and self-assured until a few hours ago, when reasonable hope was lost. In place of his heart there was a desperate, silent scream that gripped his chest like a vise. In 40 years of life he had never been so helpless. His only son was missing.


He had never realized how big the world was and how easily it could swallow up a little boy…


His wife sat in her chair at the dining room table surrounded by worried friends and close relatives. Marilyn managed to control her tears somehow, but she couldn’t hide the sobs that came from deep within her every time she tried to speak. Each sob was like another knife in her husband’s heart. She knew this, but she couldn’t stop or explain, so she just stopped talking.


Instead she stared at the oak tabletop, tracing its wooden grain with her finger, idly trying to make sense of the random pattern of light and dark, spaces empty and full, lines that made no more sense than the evil that had taken her only son.

  Reviews of 'The Milk Market'