Snow emerged from the clinic to find her husband, Nessah, in a fervor. He was tearing their home apart in a fit that was deeply out-of-character. The couch cushions were all on the floor; anything with drawers had been opened and rooted through; and, the master bedroom had been pillaged, with only a single sheet left on the bed.
She found Nessah bent over his footlocker, engrossed in his searching.
“Hon?” Snow asked. “What’s wrong?”
Nessah popped upright. He spun to look at her, panic in his eyes.
“Someone’s stolen my sketchbook,” he said.
“Stolen?” Snow folded her a