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Few things instill more fear in a parent’s mind than the word “missing”.

A U.S. Attorney’s Office recently conducted a raid connected with a child sex-trafficking ring. I don’t know the number of arrests, but I do know the number of children recovered was substantial. It was also staggering to learn that a number of the children had never been reported missing! Let that sink in. The only explanation for such forgetfulness is hard to fathom: were the children sold?

These days, with condition at our borders at human-rights-violation levels, it shouldn’t surprise us that some of the children in the custody of I.C.E. might have been consigned to a wide variety of indentured servitude. Remember that I.C.E. is destroying records. [And don’t tell me that my imagination is suspect; that human beings are above such heinous actions. We both know better, and these days are proving it more true than we can stomach.]

People go missing all the time, but there is usually someone to miss them; to alert law enforcement and otherwise undertake a search — “search and recovery” sounding too fatalistic. From the Lindbergh baby to Patty Hearst, the end of these tragedies are rarely happy. Whatever the rate of resolution, the restoration of a loved one to their family and friends happens at an unacceptible rate. Yet each story is both unique and the same: whether run-away, kidnapping, or far, far worse, communiteis of severy size and color are affected. Dare I say it, even a place like Agincourt.

This postcard tells a story, sadly an anonymous one since it is unidentified by either date or location. Only the label “midday dig at the boneyard” suggests something grim, perhaps something grim in a dark corner of Fennimore county. I feel a story coming on.

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