![]() “It doesn’t make sense,” I’d say at night. He wove about like someone walking with his eyes shut. ![]() He could barely use a sippy cup, though he’d long ago graduated to a big-boy cup. My wife, Cornelia, a former journalist, was home with him - a new story every day, a new horror. ![]() ![]() I had just started a job as The Wall Street Journal’s national affairs reporter. Just shy of his 3rd birthday, an engaged, chatty child, full of typical speech - “I love you,” “Where are my Ninja Turtles?” “Let’s get ice cream!” - fell silent. In our first year in Washington, our son disappeared. ![]()
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