That morning, like so many others, he put on the same wrinkled jacket that used to smell of expensive perfume and now only smelled of sleepless nights. He filled the back seat of his car with stacks of posters: Caleb’s picture smiling and his big eyes full of life, and below them an almost heart-wrenching message: “MISSING. ANY INFORMATION, PLEASE CALL…” He started the engine with trembling hands and drove away from the elegant neighborhoods he knew by heart.
This time he decided to go where he’d never been before: to the neighborhoods where the streets were narrow, the walls peeling, and the houses stood almost by faith. There, no one looked at him like a millionaire. No one knew about his businesses or his magazine covers. There, he was just a man with bloodshot eyes putting up posters, a father sick with longing.
He stopped beside a rusty post and took a deep breath before taping up another poster. The tape stuck to his fingers, the paper wrinkled, and he tried to smooth it out with a delicacy he no longer possessed. As he smoothed the photo, he whispered:
“Someone must have seen you, son… someone…”