All This Life

Paul tells how he created the account and reached out to Jake. Paul hands Esperanto the laptop and he reads through Jake’s tweets, then says, “At least we know he’s not in some guy’s trunk.”

“Can we track his cell phone?”

The detective hands the laptop back. “It’s not that simple.”

“Why?”

“You’re another parent who has gone to college on TV shows, watching police procedurals and think you know how this all works,” Esperanto says.

“This is our best lead.”

“Your son isn’t inside the computer.”

Paul waves his laptop at Esperanto: “He’s right here, right fucking here, I can see him!”

“Your son has only been missing a few hours. FBI is on their way. They have all the good toys. Don’t worry. You need to go home and wait. Keep him talking. Keep communicating with him. That way you know he’s okay. And let us do our job.”

Paul sits down in one of the plastic chairs in the waiting room. There’s a bank of six of them. Besides that, the space is sparse. Linoleum and police propaganda posters on the wall. No music. Nothing.

“What are you doing?” Esperanto asks.

“I’m staying.”

“No.”

“Then arrest me.”

“You can’t have your laptop in a holding cell.”

“I can’t leave.”

“Fine.”

“I’ll alert you if there are any advancements in here,” says Paul, shaking the computer.

“Not any advancements. Only important ones.”

Esperanto limps through the door, disappearing into the back, and Paul stares at the remaining officer, who has all her attention on the remaining boxes of her form.

PAUL IS LIKE everyone else now, plugged in. He tweets at his son and waits for answers but something changes: They are not alone.

Paul knew on some level that this was public, their back and forth, this online cat and mouse. But no one else had been butting in and interrupting their communiqués. It was a father and son talking — who cared about that; however, the luxury of isolation is over, with the introduction of a hashtag, #GoHomeJake.

At first, Paul has no idea what a hashtag is, but Google tells him with a quick search.

It’s tweeted to Jake from a local TV affiliate, and their whole message reads Missing teenager, @TheGreatJake, is live-tweeting. Join the conversation. #GoHomeJake.

Paul follows the station. Maybe they’ll have a clue to help his hunt. Right back, they follow Paul, probably for the same reason. It’s instantaneous. He clicks to follow a few more and they return the favor. Four. Five. Nine. New alliances, greedy alliances, all for Jake.

Immediately, their tweet is retweeted and retweeted, and Paul watches their private conversation mutate. Paul is disgusted, all this attention, turning his missing boy into something else. It had never occurred to Paul until this moment in the waiting room how when a video goes viral, that’s comparing it to an actual virus. Something that has the potential to spread out of control, infect all sorts of unsuspecting people, and this latest outbreak is his boy. Jake is the infective agent. Jake is the salacious contaminant. Jake is contagious.

These retweets lead to others intruding on their intimacy. Strangers feel the effects of the virus and, once tainted, they are pulled to patient zero:

It’s not worth it, little man. #GoHomeJake.

B safe. B careful. #GoHomeJake.

Just worm home, you spoiled brat. #GoHomeJake.

Paul can’t believe how quickly things evolve. How one father and one son, like grains of sand on a beach, can be singled out and picked from a million other nearly identical grains and their anonymity vanishes, as they’re pinched between a thumb and a forefinger, held up for everyone to inspect.

@TheGreatJake tweets to his father, @Paul_Gamache, while he’s MIA. #GoHomeJake.

Now I’ve heard of everything. Spoiled teenager needs more attention. #GoHomeJake.

Taking bets on how long @TheGreatJake makes it. I give him 3 hours before needing to be burped & bottle fed. #GoHomeJake.

Strangers even lash out at Paul: You must be a shite father, @Paul_Gamache. #GoHomeJake.

It takes all his willpower, but he’s not going to engage. You can’t win with an Internet troll, though if he — Paul knows it’s a man — stood face to face right now Paul would punch him.