The wind blew hot, stirring up dust and memories. Warren felt ridiculous, small, absurd with that stack of papers in his hand. He was about to move to the next post when he heard a small voice behind him:
“Sir… that kid lives in my house.”
He froze. His weary heart jolted so hard it hurt. He turned slowly and saw a barefoot girl in a worn dress with enormous eyes. She looked at him with a mixture of shyness and certainty.
“What… what did you say?” he stammered.
The girl pointed at the poster.
“That boy,” she repeated casually. “He lives with my mom and me.”
Warren’s legs nearly gave out. He crouched down to her level.
“Are you sure? Are you sure it’s him… this boy here?”
The girl examined the photo and nodded.
“He hardly talks. He draws all day and cries at night. Sometimes he murmurs things… calls for someone.”
“For who?” Warren whispered.
“For his dad,” she said, unaware she had just reopened the man’s shattered world.
Warren felt like he couldn’t breathe. Memories—Caleb’s laughter, his drawings on the fridge, his 3 a.m. nightmares—crashed into him.
“Do you live far?” he asked, clinging to hope.
“No,” she said. “Just around the corner.”
“Could you take me? Please.”
The girl bit her lip.