Walking downtown, Theo suddenly stopped and stared across the street. Against a crumbling brick wall sat a barefoot boy—about ten years old—with dark skin, curly hair, torn clothes, and fresh bruises.
Before Nathan could react, Theo toddled over and smiled.
“Hi! I’m Theo.”
The boy stiffened. “What do you want?”
Theo pointed.
“Dad… he has the same mark as us.”
Nathan froze.
On the boy’s forearm were five dots. Identical. Impossible.
Nathan rolled up his sleeve. Then Theo’s.
“Where did you get that?” he asked, voice trembling.
“I was born with it,” the boy said. “My name’s Jasper. Can I go?”
“When’s your birthday?”
“March 14.”
Nathan’s chest tightened. “What year?”
“2015.”
The day their baby died.
“What hospital?”
“St. Bridget’s. I was abandoned there.”
“What time were you born?”
“11:47 p.m.”
Their son had been born at 11:43.
Four minutes apart.
Nathan dropped to his knees.
He convinced Jasper to join them for lunch—just one meal. While the boy ate hungrily, Nathan made frantic calls. Hospital records. Genetic specialists. Every answer pointed the same way: the birthmark was unique to his bloodline.
When Monica arrived and saw Jasper’s arm, she nearly collapsed.
Then the call came.