Maps of the Missing

The city of Harborfield unspooled itself beneath a low, brackish sky, a ribbon of docks, warehouses, and tenements that leaned toward the water as if to whisper secrets into the tide. Elia Maren walked the narrow block between the municipal archive and her flat with a careful attention that had become a habit: the way the iron grate over Mrs. Delaney's doorway shivered when a truck lumbered past, the chipped paint on the lamppost whose base had been papered with lost-apartment notices, the smell of wet cardboard that rose from the alley when it rained. She liked these small motions. They made the city legible.

Inside the archive, the air was older than the rain. Paper dust breathed in loose filaments when the door sighed open; the electric heater hummed the same, patient note it had been humming for a decade. Elia kept a mug with a chipped rim on her desk, the rim stained brown by too much coffee. She liked to balance her hands around it when she read, as if the warmth shaped the words into something solid. She had been twenty-four for three months, and in that time she had learned how to find order in the chaos of recorded lives.

"You buried yourself in maps again," Mr. Ibrahimi said from the other side of the main table. He folded his hands like a man holding a delicate instrument. He had a surveyor's patience and the skin of someone who had measured coastlines by hand. His voice had the grain of old cardboard.

Elia looked up. "They arrive in boxes like sleeping people," she said. "You have to wake them carefully."

He chuckled. "That's one way to put it. Another is that you do the waking, and then they tell you where they've been."

She put the magnifying glass down and rubbed at a smudge on a nineteenth-century parcel map. A small inked neighborhood—three narrow streets, a pocket green—sat like a fingerprint at the paper's edge. She traced the thin lines until the paper warmed beneath her fingertip.

A cartographer's skill is a practical sort of faith: trust that lines and numbers, when kept honest, will guide you. Harborfield's lines, lately, had been shifting without note. A street would be renamed in a meeting the way someone might change a lamp's bulb and forget to tell the room. Files would be updated; microfiche would vanish. The city bureaucracy called these errors. She called them inconsistencies.

"There are more than errors right now," Mr. Ibrahimi said. He set a small manila packet on the table. The edges were taped; his hand trembled a fraction as he pushed it toward her. "Viktor came this morning. He said he found a blank place in the city's latest plan. A whole block gone."

Elia's mouth tightened. "Viktor? He's old. He has trouble finding his keys sometimes."

"This was not a missing key." He leaned back, the chair creaking. "He pulled the city atlas out of the bench where he keeps it. There was a rectangle—no streets, no houses—just a smear of aged paper where names should be. He wanted me to look, and then he walked back out onto the street and he didn't come home."

The word home sat at the edge of the room like a listening dog. Elia looked at the manila packet again and felt something thin and cold move under her ribs. Viktor Volkov had been a municipal surveyor for forty years. If he had been frightened enough to bring a paper to the archives, then the city's margins had begun to shift into places where people might get swallowed.