This is how it is: You're life is moving along on automatic drive. One day you're having your weekly shoe-shine and reading the sports page and then-wham!-the next day you're worrying about something as big as God ever worries about, bigger even, depending on how much stock you put in God.

Where is my child, who has her and what is he doing to her.

Then you get an answer.

Then you go to a lot of therapy. The pain in the back of your head feels like a pumice stone grating the top of your spine, slowly numbing the entire area around it.

Your therapist suggests group therapy because, believe it or not, there are other people in your community who have gone through a similar experience. The first thing you think is how sad it is that group therapy exists for this affliction, this survivor cancer. The second thing you think is how unfortunate it is that you have qualified for it. The third thing you think is, no way will it help me, but I'll go anyway. What the hell.

So you go.

You talk about what happened to your little girl so much that a callous forms around the injured parts in your head, until soon you are able to talk about it in a way that is slightly detached; slightly cold, even. You worry that you are in Denial. You are told you are not; that in fact you have reached Acceptance. You get angry because Acceptance doesn't feel as cathartic as you had always heard it is supposed to. When you express your anger, you are told that apparently you have not quite yet entered the Acceptance phase after all.

Then, you listen to everyone else's stories. You hear some stories even more gruesome than yours and are shocked that this is possible. One little girl's body is found with burns all over her abdomen from cigarette butts. The side of another one's face is so bruised and battered that they have to wait for a dental analysis to come back to confirm her identity.

You were told "it could have been worse" by the authorities and found it nauseatingly trite and insensitive at the time, but when you hear for yourself that other attacks have in fact been worse, it is indeed oddly comforting. You become thankful that your daughter's death was quick; no evidence of abuse other than the rape and gunshot wound to the temple. It makes you sick to feel thankful over something such as this. But you have been a keen observer of the human condition in your 42 years of life, and you know that humans come into the world hardwired to cope, and that silver linings are coping's irrational byproduct.

At a coffee break during the session, a man approaches you, compliments you on your Rolex and asks you how much you paid for it. Normally, this would disgust you, but because this man has just described to you, in horrifying detail, the circumstances surrounding the abduction of his 7-year-old, you not only answer, but you answer truthfully, adding that you bought it for yourself after receiving your first big bonus at the firm.

The man's name is Frank.

In addition to being a bit crass, Frank has an incisor missing and wears a malformed and sickly-looking goatee on his chin.

But he is one of the few people on earth with whom you can relate.

So, you and Frank start hanging out.

He invites you for ribs and Schlitz beers behind his house and you go. While the grill sputters grease drippings from the ribs onto the crabgrass in Frank's backyard, Frank introduces you to Snow White, his little girl's hamster. You watch Snow White scampering in the palatial hamster haven that Frank built for the hamster after his little girl's funeral. It has five turrets, three running mills and a never-ending labyrinth of tubular passageways. You notice some paintings stacked on the floor as Frank turns the ribs. You flip through them-abstract, modern images that seem lit from within.

"These yours?" you ask.

He nods. "I haven't painted much lately, though."

"They're good. So bright."

He sets down his tongs and reaches inside the cooler. "Another beer?" he says.

You nod.

He cracks open two, hands you one and takes a swig. "I'm not a drunk," he says.

You lift your eyebrows. "I didn't think you were."

"I just have a drink or two with the boys every now and then, you know."

"Yeah," you say. "Me too."

A few hours later when you emerge from behind his house belching Schlitz bubbles in the back of your throat, you notice that the hubcaps to your Mercedes have been stolen. You don't mind though. Who cares. You have new priorities in life, and losing a hubcap or two for the sake of a friendship is a no brainer.

Your other friends worry about you and try to get you to be more social. You explain that you are social; it's just that you are not social with them. You tell them about Frank, lying just a bit to make it seem like Frank might live next door to you; like he might have a college degree and enjoy, occasionally, talking about index funds and golf.

In the meantime, your wife has begun again-after some months of self-imposed isolation and contemplation-to shimmy over to your side of the bed at night and caress the hair on your chest-a signal that she wants to make love. You think, my God, how can we enjoy sex when our little girl went through what she did. How can we ever enjoy anything again. Can my wife really be this cold and uncaring.

You feign sleep.

In the morning, you hate the hard-on you awaken to; it makes you feel guilty and dirty and barbaric, ashamed that you are not able to control such a thing.

One day, Frank asks you if you have ever gone smelt fishing. You tell him no.

He invites you on smelt run up at his family's cabin for a weekend in early May. You accept. You tell your wife and she looks at you stunned and says, "That's Sarah's birthday weekend."

"Sarah's dead," you say, and walk away.

Snow White is nibbling something on Frank's shoulder when Frank picks you up in his old Chevy. The upholstery on the passenger seat is frayed and there is a brown stain on the dash. Frank is wearing a purple knit skull cap and is chewing bubble gum. The back seat is stuffed with smelt fishing gear-a large dip-net, cleaning implements and a folded canvas teepee that Frank says you'll use to smoke part of the catch.

He gives you a piece of cheese and lifts his shoulder, offering up Snow White.

You put Snow White on your lap. She shivers at first, so you stroke her and give her a crumb of cheese and soon she seems to relax. Her fur is soft. You picture Frank's little girl petting her. You start to feel sorry for Snow White that she lost her little caregiver, and you stroke her some more. You tear up a bit, and look down hoping Frank won't notice.

The cabin is near the mouth of the creek where you will be dipping your nets. It's dusk when you arrive, so you build a fire and open some cans of beans and heat them in a cast iron pan. Frank slops the beans into two tins, gives you one, and you eat. You feel like a gold-digger camping out in the Wild West.

The next morning, you walk to the creek and uncover Frank's dingy. Snow White comes along on Frank's shoulder. As you launch from the dock, Frank explains that today is just a reconnaissance mission. You want to see that at least a few smelt have started to return to the mouth from their annual spawning runs. "If we see some, then in a day or two, this whole creek'll be full of 'em."

It's cold for May, and your wife has been calling your cell phone. You listen to her messages. You'll call her later.

Snow White scampers onto the boom as Frank starts to paddle. You glide in silence toward the mouth, listening to the quiet trickles of water slipping among the smooth pebbles on the shore. Frank chews his gum and peers out toward the mouth. Snow White balances on the rim near the stern, jerking her head to follow the jagged paths of the myriad water spiders skimming the creek's surface. Near the mouth, Frank pulls in the oars and you coast a bit, both looking into the water in hopes of seeing the silvery shimmer of a smelt or two that will portend an auspicious weekend ahead. Frank opens a can of Schlitz, sticks his gum on top and takes a swig. You wait.

In a little while, he nudges you and points. You look and see a small school of smelt swimming along. He nods and smiles. You smile back.

Then you hear a plunk.

You both glance around for Snow White. Frank jumps up and starts checking under the seat pads. You look under the steering wheel.

"Fuck!" Frank says, and jumps into the creek near the stern. "Fuck!" he says again, slashing around in the water, bobbing his head in and out of it like a piston. "Snow White!"

For the rest of the day, Frank is quiet. You offer to drive him home. He says no, he wants to stay and dip for smelt. He goes out for a walk. You check your messages.

Your voicemail is full. Two messages are from your wife; one just to say hi, and another telling you that she is planning on remembering Sarah's birthday tomorrow by visiting the chimps at the zoo, hoping that Sarah will see them too and smile.

You hear smothered sobs that night coming from Frank's room.

His eyes are red the next morning, and he looks thinner and drained-suddenly-like someone siphoned all that was soluble inside him while he slept.

On the way to the dingy, you lead him off the path toward a rotted oak trunk. Earlier that morning, you had tied two twigs into a cross, burned into the side of one, "Snow White R.I.P.," and sunk the cross into the earth in front of the trunk.

Now, you are not really Christian, the same way you are not really Jewish, and not really Muslim or Hindu, but you position Frank near the cross and recite what you think is a decent prayer. Frank lowers his head and you see him start to shake a bit and cover his face. Then he falls before the cross, and begins rolling his forehead on the ground in front of it, murmuring, "I'm sorry, Snow White. I'm so sorry."

There are a few other dinghies out this morning. Word has spread that the smelt are returning. Frank arranges the dip-net while you paddle toward the mouth. It's overcast again today and the breeze still has a chilly bite. You anchor near the mouth, close to the shore, not far away from another dingy. Smelt are swimming by already in loosely populated schools. You wait for the stream to thicken.

The men in the dingy next to you nod. One is wearing a camouflage-colored fishing vest with several pockets and about a dozen hooks jiggling on the front. The other is in a black T-shirt and shorts. He's got a stick in his mouth and is dangling his legs over the bow. There's what looks like a Swiss Army knife strapped around his calf.

In time, you feel the creek swell and see a silvery surge moving slowly toward you. Frank gives you a thumbs up and tosses the net. The dingy lurches and groans as dozens of smelt snag themselves in the net. The fisherman next to you pull in their first haul-hundreds of smelt flipping around in the bundle of net. You help Frank pull in your net and deposit the load into a large bin near the stern. Frank is sweating and breathing heavy. He wipes his brow and stares into the bin. You reach into the swarming pile and pluck one out by the tail. It flaps under your fingers. Small and harmless. Frank stares at it. Then he looks at you, and your eyes lock for a moment. The smelt flaps a few times more, and Frank gently takes it from you and cups his hands around it. He leans toward it and whispers, "It's okay, little one. It's okay," walks to the side of the boat and releases it into the water. You are breathing heavy now. You look into the full bin of tiny writhing life and feel panicked. You can see that Frank feels the same way. You scoop a handful of smelt and throw them back. Frank slaps your back and says, "Yeah, yeah." He grabs a bucket. "Hurry!" he says, and you start scooping faster. You hear snickers from the camouflage and black T-shirt men as you work, but you keep at it. Frank starts plucking stray smelt from the dingy floor. When you've emptied the bin, Frank starts laughing. "We did it," he says. "Yeah." You detangle one last smelt from the crumpled net and release it back into the creek. Frank starts doing a little dance.

You sit down, exhausted but satisfied. "How 'bout a beer?" you ask. But Frank doesn't answer. He is staring over at the other dingy. His chest is pumping. "How 'bout a beer?" you say louder. He ignores you again and instead reels around and pulls your arm. "Up!" he says. "Get up! There's more." He points to the other dingy. You hold your hand up. "No, no," you say, half-laughing because you presume he is joking.

"C'mon!" He waves you on, then turns, jumps into the water and starts to run-swim toward the dingy. You call after him. "Let 'em go!" Frank yells at the two men on board. "Let 'em go!" The men look at him like he is crazy. They've just spread their second net in the water.

"Get away," they say, waving their hands.

Frank nears the starboard side of the boat.

The camouflage man stands over Frank, looking down at him with his hands clenched. "Get the fuck away!" he yells. Frank grips the side of the boat and starts to hoist himself up. You call after him. Camouflage man pushes Frank back into the water. You lean off the side of the dingy and call after Frank again. But Frank doesn't listen. He thrashes back toward the boat and starts hoisting himself up again. This time the camouflage man punches Frank in the mouth and Frank falls back-first into the water. The man appeals to you. "Will you get this crazy asshole outta here? For chrissake!." Frank starts hoisting himself up again. His mouth is bleeding. Camouflage man kicks him off. You jump into the water now and run-swim over to Frank. One thing you will remember, for days to come, is the semi-erotic and semi-vile way the swarm of smelt feel sliding against your bare ankles. Frank slaps you and rushes back toward the camouflage man's dingy. The other man in the black T-shirt has jumped into the water now and is circling around the boat toward Frank. The camouflage man kicks Frank again, and the black T-shirt man tackles Frank as soon as he hits the water. The two tumble together under the water and you watch them splashing about as they wrestle. "What's wrong with you?" the black T-shirt man says. "Chill, man!" Then Frank grabs him low, and you hear black T-shirt man says, "No! No!" Frank's eyes are wild. "Chill, huh, asshole?" Frank says. "Here!" It looks like Frank punches himself in the stomach, until you see the redness spreading over the water's surface. Frank falls back, and the black T-shirt man motions to you. "Help me get him!"

For a brief moment as you watch Frank's body floating face-up in the red water on top of the surge of smelt, you wish it were you laying there, drifting on the red-tinged, silvery tide, toward the cooler waters downstream.

Your wife joins you for Frank's funeral. Not many people are there. A cousin, a couple of buddies, and your group therapist who had been trying to help Frank get over the guilt he'd felt for having some beers at a friend's the evening his daughter was abducted. Your wife pets the back of your head during the ceremony. Afterward, she swigs a cold bottle of Schlitz with you at the nearby bar. She surveys the bottle. "I like Schlitz," she says. You reach for her shoulders and pull her close. You feel her tugging hard at a clump of your hair while you squeeze her tight. There's a pool table in the corner. You will play exactly three games of pool in a little while, over another couple bottles of Schlitz each. Then she will drive you home, and you will lie back, safely belted in, and listen to her sing along quietly to the songs on the radio.

Susan Solomon (IL) has published work in 42Opus, Long Story Short, Salome Magazine, and elsewhere.