the Fletchers’ neighbors, under the subterfuge of concern, could finally let their anxieties about their own finances and their own success and their own futures and their own legacies surface right in front of each other, and the ugliest part of themselves found them whispering, late at night, across the pillow to their spouses, not where was Carl Fletcher, or are we in danger, or has the world changed, but: Why not us? Why aren’t we rich enough to be kidnapped?
