I was roughly two years old when Etan Patz disappeared, making me a member of what I believe was the last generation of truly independent children. Even while growing up in the Bronx during the crack epidemic and the violence that ensued, the children on my block were encouraged (and sometimes forced) to play outside. We played classic street games like freeze tag, Red Rover and taps, and invented some of our own, such as Hot Peas and Butter. In the summers, my friends and I would venture the mile or so walk to the local elementary school for free lunch. No one looked for us as long as we got home before the street lights came on. Etan was still an aberration even as missing children began to appear on milk cartons.