anti:freeze

I. In the lobby of the lawyer's office, Wednesday morning:

Today's newspaper tells the story of a woman who set fire to a house, kidnapped a ten-day-old infant from inside, and raised the baby as her own for six years. Meanwhile, authorities presumed the baby burned to death. The body must have been incinerated, police said. Bone fragments were all that was left. This is exactly what the kidnapper planned. If the baby was dead, it was not a missing person. No missing person, no kidnapping.

The baby's mother, however, had questions. Why was the crib empty when she ran into the nursery? Why was the window pushed open?

Fast forward to January 2004. This mother attends a birthday party, where she immediately recognizes her long-lost daughter among the toddlers. She leans down and pretends to pry bubble gum from the girl's hair, yanking a handful of DNA for the forensics lab.

And the DNA matches. And in that insant, her dead child becomes a missing child.

I am impressed by the mother's presence of mind - that she could press her fingertips into the scalp, yank the hair by its root, remembering the tiny bones in the nursery, the empty crib, the body no one ever found.

The receptionist stands up to stretch, notices the newspaper. "Amazing story."

"I wonder how she knew," I say.

She nods her head. "Mothers just know."

I fold the paper and lay it down on the table, checking my watch. Conversations like this make me nervous. Waiting rooms make me nervous.

The receptionist picks up her coffee mug and sips slowly, staring out the window. "There are no secrets. Not anymore. Not with all that technology out there."

There are no secrets.

Later, I think about the little girl, how she let a stranger tug hair from her scalp, how she never asked to see the bubble gum.

II. In the cafe, watching people walk in and out of the door, Wednesday afternoon:

Did you know that most RFID tags have no batteries? Probing radio signals provide the power, the charge, the spark that brings them to life. In other words, they are charged by the interest that is shown in them.

So what happens when the secrets are all leaked? When you listen in on all my worst days? When I can't hide the lipstick in my pocket, or the torn dollar bill in my wallet, the shrinking measurements of my clothing? When there is nothing left to probe? No need for a new signal, a new spark? Do we all become missing people, now that we can be found?