You had a girlfriend when you were sixteen and her name was Ellen. When Ellen moved to Florida with her parents, she asked you whether you thought the two of you would stay in love forever, even though she was moving far away. You said to her only, "When you're thirty-six, mail me a dandelion."
Ellen has been thirty-six for eight months now and you've been checking your mailbox every day with a swiftly growing dread. No dandelions.
She could never have forgotten. Something, or someone, is keeping her from contacting you.
"She could be dead," your father suggested.
"The dead have executors to carry out their wishes posthumously," you say. "No. I think she's being held captive by someone or she's trapped under something. What if she's hungry?"
"Find her," your mother said.
"But my administrative assistant position. I could be fired if I take off from work for too long."
"Oh yeah," your mother said.
You have a three-day weekend starting tomorrow, and you often get let out early on the day before a three-day weekend. Find her. But first, get a search running.
Happy Dandelion Day!