Mason tugged on her sleeve. “Mom, his eyes look like mine. We match.”
Before she could form an answer, Mason bolted forward. Breanna reached for him too late. Her voice evaporated in the warm air.
“Mason, wait. Come back.”
He skidded to a halt in front of the boy, whose cardboard box jostled and spilled cheap plastic figurines onto the pavement. The two boys stared at one another as though their bodies remembered a connection their minds could not name.
The stranger spoke first. “Hi. My name is Milo. Do you dream about a place with white halls and big lights too.”
Mason nodded eagerly. “Yes. And there were beeps and humming sounds. And we were in a room together. I think we were babies.”
Breanna approached on trembling legs. Words crowded her throat like birds afraid to fly. She crouched beside them.
“Milo,” she said gently, feeling each syllable like something fragile. “Where are your parents. Who takes care of you.”
A woman nearby dozed on a bench. Her clothing looked as worn as Milo’s. A faded shawl covered her shoulders. Her face, even in rest, held lines etched by exhaustion.