Tucked away in a corner, lay a wooden ruler blending in with the past. Flat as a floorboard and weathered as a dock. There are layers of built-up ink, graphite, marker and paint along one of its long  edges—the side with the incrementation, naturally. As though differentiation demands to be marked. Deep, erratic gouges from the seven and three-quarters to eleven inch mark suggest a moment of frustration—perhaps a project under the gun or a predisposition to flying off the handle. On its back are ten “safety rules” geared towards teaching children how to avoid dangerous missteps with strangers. Things like: “Never Hitchhike—NEVER!”, or “Never Tell Callers That You’re Home Alone” and “Never Accept Toys, Candy, Rides, Money or Medicine From Strangers”. However well-intentioned this small piece of wood may have been, the owner used a thick, black marker to write “MEGhan’s ruler” across them and actually painted over two rules with it—namely: “Always Play or Walk With Friends” and “Never Give Your Name or Address To A Stranger”. Additionally, there is a line etched through the safety in “safety rules” as well as the same blacked-out treatment given to the other end with the two rules. This person was clearly a child and, most probably, was more worried about other kids taking her stuff than getting kidnapped by a stranger. Yet here lies the ruler with no account of Meghan’s current whereabouts or condition. Needless to say, one cannot rule out the intervention of a stranger in her life at some point. On the other hand, maybe she just got tired of measuring things.