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"Ain't No Sunshine When She's Gone..."

The jangling of the phone interrupted his thoughts and immediately silenced his tribute to her. He rushed over and forcefully grabbed the receiver from its cradle and tucked it into the crook of his neck.

"Did you find her?" he asked the unknown caller. He picked up a small silver picture frame from the table and continued to listen. "I see. Okay. Please call me the moment you know something."

He slammed the phone down and lowered himself into the overstuffed chair, once his favorite, now unwelcoming to his large frame. He shifted his weight and adjusted the pillow under the small of his back. If only he could get comfortable, maybe sleep would come. He was running on empty. Three days without a solid night's sleep would crush anyone's spirits, but Steve wanted something much more than sleep, he wanted his wife to come home to him-unharmed.

He studied the image in his hands. Taken on their wedding day, he smiled at the memories it evoked. She looked beautiful in her wedding gown. Her skin tone-a mixture of mud and honey-as she liked to say, her smile, and her shapely body were the first things he noticed about her when they met, however, those assets were painful to look at now. He sighed and tucked the frame under the pillow. He missed her so much.

Three days. They had been married for six years and he had never been away from her for this length of time. What would he do without her? His mind refused to think of the worst, but it was hard not to. The phone rang again. He sat motionless for a moment and appeared unsure as to whether he should answer. Good news or bad, one or the other, and the harsh sound didn't offer a clue.

"Hello. No, the police don't have any more information." Steve paused and listened. "Noora, I can't join you for Thanksgiving tomorrow. I'm sorry, but I just can't. What if she comes home and I'm not here?"

He once again hung up the phone and walked into the kitchen.

Thanksgiving was one of Aiesha's favorite holidays. She called it, "Family Day," and although he had never attempted it before, he decided he was going to prepare the meal by himself. Complete with all the "fixin's" as his granddad used to say. It would be his gift to her, his silent plea for her to come home. He pulled out several cookbooks, and spread them across the kitchen table. He poured over them for the next three hours, jotting notes to himself anytime a particular recipe caught his eye.

When he finished, he carefully looked

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