His name was David.

1952 saw New York as one of the coolest places to be. Whether you had money or not, New York was the most popular city in the States, and the citizens sort of knew it would always be that way.

Of course, with every popular city, there are disappearances.

Harry gazed around the room that had belonged to his older brother. He and David had never really gotten along; David was one of the bad boys, keen to stay out late, and Harry had heard he was involved in a few of the crimes that went on. David had always been a rough boy, and the right side of the law had never appealed to him.

Harry surveyed the bed, the sheets still messy from the last time David had slept there, during the day over a month ago. Dirty clothes still littered the floor, and there was a red stain on the carpet, from where he'd spilt something; it looked like blood. Harry shivered, and blocked the thought from his mind.

At first, he'd been glad that David was gone. It meant that he had everything to himself. But it only took him a week to realise that he'd enjoyed the small, pointless arguments with his brother over things like the stereo, or which clothing item belonged to who. Harry had been a bit upset that David, where ever he was, still had his black coat.

Harry sighed and closed the door. His parents were still putting posters everywhere, advertising for David as though he were a lost pet. But he meant much more to them than just being a pet. Without the rebellious son, their family wouldn't – couldn't – be whole again.

Harry knew David would never come back. He was off someplace bette, enjoying himself.