“Where were you when you found out rock legend Elijah Hart had disappeared? That the talented yet troubled musician had taken a rowboat into the stormy waters off Iceland’s south coast and never returned?”
The radio DJ’s voice rumbles through the air in seventeen-year-old Hen Vögel’s bedroom. “I was right here,” she says to her walls.
“Maybe you were returning home from work when you learned the front man of the multiplatinum-selling husband-and-wife duo the Lightning Bottles had been declared dead,” the DJ continues. “Maybe you were on a first date. Or a last date. Or driving in your car with the radio on.” Hen shakes her head; she has never done any of those things.
“How did you feel when you realized his miraculous voice had been silenced forever?”
DJ Grüber does this every year. In case the emotions are fading, he tries to stir them up. But Hen doesn’t need stirring. The difference be- tween thirteen years old and seventeen is supposed to be a caterpillar versus a butterfly. But Hen has remained stuck in her cocoon, trying to rewrite the story of her hero’s demise, since the day Elijah Hart disappeared five years earlier.
She stares up into his eyes gazing out from a poster tacked to the wall above her bed. There’s a permanent sunbeam stained across his T-shirt now. He’s tall and lean, his hair unkempt like he just woke up. One of his front incisors overlaps the other—Hen knows the details of Elijah Hart’s…