In the end, the only charge to her card is from the grocery store.

They find the car a week later, spoiled dairy in the trunk.

An old man, sweet, wrinkled face, holds the door, “Allow me, miss.”

Seventy-seven years, and no one's ever had to drag this river.

She lowers the music, rolls down her window. A warm, spring day, welcomed after too much winter. “Can I offer you a ride?”

The local media questions officials.

There are parts of the human body people rarely consider.

Wheel well patterns. Detectives think she might have thought about crashing the car.

It’s the femoral artery that does it.

Checkout line, twenty items or less, scan your own – she’s bagging plastic.

“I can’t believe I started this and we don’t have any milk.” He’s a little frantic, parents due in less than an hour. She’s nothing but amused, an arm around his waist, soft kiss to his cheek. “Don’t worry,” she says, “I’ve got it.”

Pieces.

This is how she disappears.