A young man in Chicago leaves a bar late at night, alone, and vanishes. His family files a missing person report, plasters his face on telephone poles all over town, and prays for good news — all in vain. Before long they get the call they feared the most: their son’s lifeless body has washed up on the shore of the Chicago River.

No signs of blunt force trauma, nothing to suggest foul play. He was last seen at the bar, and no one had any reason to expect his disappearance. The police have no leads, and soon his death is ruled an accidental drowning. His last moments are shrouded in mystery, and his loved ones are left to grieve a premature passing they can’t begin to understand.

Eventually, perhaps, they begin to accept his death as a freak accident. Then they see another flier, for another young man, who also left a bar alone and vanished — and whose lifeless body soon washed up just downstream of where their son was found. No blunt force trauma, no leads. Suddenly their son’s accidental drowning starts to feel like an “accidental” drowning.