By evening, he stood again before the twin headstones, heart pounding with something dangerously close to hope.
That night, sleep wouldn’t come.
The next morning, he returned to the cemetery. At the base of the graves, among the wilted daisies, he found a scrap of gray fabric.
On it, drawn in charcoal, were three stick figures holding hands. Two smaller ones in dresses. One taller with a beard.
Underneath, barely legible:
“Stone Creek. 17.”
Stone Creek was a neglected neighborhood on the edge of the city.
His heart hammered. He didn’t dare call the police with such a story. A mysterious boy. A drawing. A doll.
He drove there himself.
Stone Creek was a maze of narrow alleys and sagging houses patched with tin and plywood. House 17 was barely standing, its door hanging slightly open.
He hesitated only a second before pushing inside.
The air smelled of mold and alcohol.
There, on a pile of old blankets, lay the boy from the cemetery. His skin looked pale and feverish. Beside him, a large man slept heavily, an empty bottle in his hand.
The boy looked at Harrison. “I knew you’d come.”
“What’s going on?” Harrison whispered.
“He’s my dad,” the boy said weakly. “He doesn’t like when I tell things.”