I am a recovering alcoholic. I work in the field of substance abuse counseling and I see, first- hand, how drugs not only ruin the abuser's lives, but also the lives of children in our communities.

I think when I was introduced to Cash there was a mutual admiration. I'm very proud to have been a part of getting him here.

It was important to her and I wanted to see that it was done. It was kind of a memorial to her.

We had talked about this a lot before she died. We both believed that if we were going to give money to help someone, this was the best way to do it.

She looked at him like it physically hurt her not to speak, and yet she stayed silent.

When a child disappears, the space she’d occupied is immediately filled with dozens of people. And these people—relatives, friends, police officers, reporters from both TV and print—create a lot of energy and noise, a sense of communal intensity, of fierce and shared dedication to a task.

“But amid all that noise, nothing is louder than the silence of the missing child. It’s a silence that’s two and a half to three feet tall, and you feel it at your hip and hear it rising up from the floorboards, shouting to you from corners and crevices and the emotionless face of a doll left on the floor by the bed.

“It’s a silence that’s different from the one left at funerals and wakes. The silence of the dead carries with it a sense of finality; it’s a silence you know you must get used to. But the silence of a missing child is not something you want to get used to; you refuse to accept it, and so it screams at you.

“The silence of the dead says, Goodbye.

“The silence of the missing says, Find me.