There isn’t anything I wouldn’t do for my daughter. Her birth was a blessing to me, and blessings are her birthright. Don’t get me wrong; we know that the better part of good luck is really just hard work. Sometimes she struggles with that; she doesn’t really understand, but I have to be patient. After all, she is only four and a half.

Like just today I was running late and she wasn’t helping. I’d sent her upstairs to find my glasses but she got distracted with a doll on the landing. I was desperate, not because I was late, but because of the principle. Maintaining focus is critically important in life – more so when you are a child and you are so vulnerable. In the end I found the glasses in the laundry room leading to the garage; so, that crisis was averted, but the principle got us off to a bad start. I don’t know what I would do if I ever lost her, and that’s why it’s important that she learn the importance of clear thinking and focus.

This isn’t an idle fear. Time and again you hear about abductions in the media. I know the media tends to sensationalize things, but the fact remains that evil is all around us and children do go missing.

[Phone rings]

Hello, my love…Oh, Caroline; I thought you were Trevor. Where is he?…Did you tell him it was important?…I know it’s not your fault; I don’t care if he is now in a meeting. He wasn’t in a meeting when I called…Look, just make sure he calls me as soon as possible. The contractor needs him to sign off. Thanks. [Hangs up]

Sorry. There was a time about a year ago. We were in the mall and Vicki was standing off to the side while I tried on a dress in Max Azaria (sic). Or no, it couldn’t have been; Macy’s doesn’t carry him and I’m pretty sure it was Macy’s. Anyway, while I was in front of the 3-way mirror, she got away. I don’t know how long I was concentrating on the mirror – it couldn’t have been more than ten seconds…maybe twenty – but when I turned back to where she had been she was nowhere to be seen. I rushed around the carousels, calling her name, but my instincts told me to head for the door, which was only about twenty yards down an adjacent corridor.

[A child’s voice – indistinguishable]

Not now, Darling. Mama’s busy. Please take Mr. Bunny up to Lammie…and stay out of the cabinets. Make sure everything is put away in the playroom. I’ll be up to check on you when I’m done here.

Where was I? Oh, yes, it’s amazing how quickly hysteria can take hold in these moments. I remember frantically querying strangers as I rushed for the door. I must have seemed like a maniac. The last person I encountered was a sales assistant – where was she when I was trying to find the right size? – and I barked a description of Vicki: four years old; this high; mousey hair; pink and yellow sun dress; white socks with frills. And then I hit the noise of the mall, setting off the store alarm because I was still wearing the dress.

In these moments nothing else matters. Everything I looked at was in sharp detail. I scanned the cappuccino bar, the large bags and bar stool legs. I measured the degree of threat or absence in the eyes of probably sixty people: eager lovers, tired couples, cash-strapped compromisers, bumpkins in town for the day, mothers like me, and a sea of homogenous look-alikes. I could rely on no one, but I needed everyone to stop their meaningless meandering and to tell me where my daughter was. I discounted probably three children bearing some similarity to Vicki, and dreaded to see her disappearing round a corner, holding some monster’s hand.

All this happened in a flash because I only got as far as Banana Republic, two stores down, before two sales assistants from Macy’s and a mall cop stopped me. At first I was having nothing of their trivial BS, but the cop was already talking on his walkie-talkie, assuring me that he had put out a message to the security department who were then surveying the whole mall on cameras. He said it would be better if I returned to Macy’s to help with a more thorough search there, where I could also give him a better description of her, and I was technically in possession of a stolen dress. Do you believe it?

Anyway, when we got back to ladies’ wear, there was Vicki with a sales assistant, standing right where I’d last seen her. Poor thing was scared stiff. I don’t suppose I made it any better by my wretched appearance. It’s not easy to claw your way back from madness, and I was definitely crazy with panic.

A long story made short, you can never be too safe. You must always be on guard; so, when I heard about the GPS implant, I said to Trevor we should look into it. He wasn’t keen. He had most of the normal concerns: hurting Vicki, infections, leakage, radiation. In fact he wanted nothing to do with it, but I persisted.

I’ve been very pleased with the research and the assurances Locagenics has provided. The transmitter is very tiny, a little over an inch long and about as thick as a medium knitting needle. It’s encased in silicone. A cosmetic surgeon does the implanting, and the device is positioned behind the collarbone, so there isn’t any unsightly bulge – even on a child as small as Vicki. Radiation fears are unfounded, as I’m told the signal is too weak to be a danger. We spend our lives immersed in a fog of radiation, what with our TVs, cell phones, remote controls and wireless networks. No, the potential benefits are just too great. We go in on Thursday.

Trevor? No, he left me to do the research. The appointment was spur of the moment. I’ll tell him once I’m sure it’s working out. If I said nothing, he probably wouldn’t even notice. I can’t remember the last time he dressed his daughter. He’s so busy. We rarely see him, what with his work and my commitments: yoga, fundraisers, tennis. Maybe I’ll tell him. Why rock the boat?

Damn it, I wish he’d call.

The preceding is a transcript from a tape submitted by freelance correspondent, Sophie Oedekerk. Sophie lives and works in the city of Yellowknife in Northern Canada

I’ve been like this all my life. You know that. Jason, Isabel and Mallory used to make a game of it. So much for sibling love. They’d play on my anxieties and take me to the edge of exasperation. Sometimes I’d faint, and others I’d just have troubles breathing. I don’t know which was worse because when I’d faint, things would stabilize while I was away. When I’d come round, sometimes the room would be unchanged; sometimes I was alone, sometimes your face or some other would be looming over me. Other times I’d be in a different room altogether, but at least I didn’t have to struggle through the blackness.

The breathing thing would usually overtake me when I was alone. I wouldn’t have the luxury of passing out and I’d be left with my thoughts folding in on themselves ‘til my breath was a wisp and my lungs would verge on seizure. I would want nothing more at those times than for you to be there with me, but of course you couldn’t be. And when you’d hear about it, you’d usually scold me and put me down. I didn’t know it then but that was really just you dealing with your own fear. I had to get it from somewhere.

They say 97 percent of all fears are not founded in anything real, that they’re figments of irrational concern, and that shortness of breath is really just a failure to exhale. That’s what Dr. Cavell said when you took me for the tests. When you’re not exhaling it doesn’t take long before there’s no more room to inhale. And there you have it, a failure to breathe. Thoughts folding in, inhalations exceeding exhalations, the irrational anxieties giving way to the very real fear of suffocation. There’s no way to rethread your way back through the labyrinth because reason masquerades as irrationality and you can’t trust anyone or anything to lead you home.

What are you thinking as you lie there? Anything? Do you know I’m here? If you opened your eyes now, would you see me looming over you? Would I flood you with the same relief I felt when I came round?

As a young girl, I don’t remember how old, maybe five or six, I discovered a trick. When my breathing became short, I learned that if I sang, my breathing would regulate to the phrasing of the song. Not every song worked. Some were too breathy, or filled with emotions that were either too vexing – those were the songs of my yearning years – or too absent of anything to beguile me out of my spiral.

Your stuttering breaths are playing on me now. I’m clearing my throat as though it might clear yours for you, but of course it won’t. And there it is: the cycle is welling up. Could something please lift the pressure from you and from me? Could health and vitality blow through this room, this antiseptic and stentorian box? What do I need to do in my life that will keep me from suffering as you are now? Is my diet winding the clock on some visceral time bomb? What plague is hatching in me right now, sowing the seeds of my collapse?

Goodnight you moonlight ladies
Rock-a-bye sweet baby James
Deep greens and blues are the colors I choose
Won’t you let me go down in my dreams

Don’t get me wrong, my brother can be a real asshole, my mother’s a dragon and my dad’s a piece of shit more often than not. But they’re still my family and they’ve been there for me and I know they’ve got my back. And they better know the same about me.

Dean – that’s my bro – he’s in insurance and he hates the way I don’t bother about money. He’s always riding me. But that shit just gives me a headache. Life’s too short to feed on Tylenol. Fuck that. I’ve got friends that help me with dinero. In fact, that’s what I’m doing right now. Waiting on a friend.

The dude’s a CFO in some agribusiness play. I make good coin and he drops me leads on where to put it. We met at a tradeshow last summer. That is, he was at a tradeshow; I was out for drinks with friends. He was pounded a bit straight, but he made me laugh, and that counts for a lot. The people I was with were getting on my nerves and he flashed a smile when things started going sideways. He’s fat, funny and smart. We’ve been out a few times when I’ve needed his brand of medicine. My fucking boss finally paid me on the deal I closed six weeks ago, and I want to plow the proceeds somewhere useful. He’s okay. We’ll probably have fun – if he actually gets here. I know he will. He thinks I’m hot.

Speaking of which, there’s some turks at the end of the bar, and they’re flagging me over. Might as well make some fun while I’m waiting. Like I said, life’s too short to waste. All the girls in the house, say Yeah.