My best friend was kidnapped. We were eleven years old, passing a football in my backyard, when a middle aged man walked to my side. My mother, the chaperone for the day, saw the man from our kitchen window and ran to me, leaving my friend on the other side of the yard, alone.
“Can I help you with something?” my mother asked. She put her hand on my shoulder and walked us backwards. The man breathed heavy. He wore a maroon suit, had a dark red beard, and stood well over six and half feet tall, one of tallest men I had ever seen. I don’t remember his face, I only remember closing my eyes and hearing the man’s low voice, but no words. When I opened my eyes my mother began to cry. She wrapped her arms around me, so tight I couldn’t move or see anything behind me. We just cried, and when I finally broke free the man was gone, and in the distance, where my best friend had been standing, was a football.
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