No tears, his wife said. No tears until they find him.

He went to work, turned on his computer and disappeared. They thought he went out for a smoke. Then when he didn’t come back until lunch, they thought he went to the bank or for some meeting he forgot to mention. By evening, they ran out of excuses.

They called the wife, speaking in a cautious tone, to see if he had gone home. She said he hadn’t and they could hear panic clouding her voice.

They sent out people to search hospitals, parks and movie halls. His wife suggested they send someone to the bars even though he had never touched alcohol. They came back without him. The police took a picture of him, a rather cheerful one on vacation, and promised to do what they could. A neighbour who dabbled in astrology said that he was in danger. He just assumed that his optimistic brethren would have eliminated this possibility.

His wife woke up two days and reminded herself she wasn’t allowed to cry. She touched the empty side of the bed and took deep breaths. She had barely slept at all and felt worse than she did the day before. Her throat closed in on her and her head hurt.

That afternoon they found him on the border of the city. He had been mugged and then beaten after. He was alive but shaken. They called the wife but she didn’t answer. They went home and found her lifeless on the bed. Her body was still warm and her eyes were still dry.

It was like a joke where no-one has the strength to laugh. Real stories do that; they rarely follow the rules of humour and writing.