The reply came as the first light crept through our curtains.
“Really? Sure. Here’s the address.”
He lived over 2,000 miles away. I booked flights before my courage faded.
“I think we may know each other. Can we meet?”
Mike helped me pack. He seemed gentle and sad at the same time. He folded Bill’s dinosaur shirt — soft and faded now, and slipped it into my bag.
“You sure you’re ready, Meg?”
“No. But I’ve waited too long to turn back now.”
***
At the airport, I clung to Bill’s shirt, breathing in the ghost of old detergent and dust. On the plane, Mike squeezed my hand, his thumb tracing circles. “If it isn’t him—”
“Then we come home, and I keep searching.”
He nodded, tears swimming in his eyes.
I closed mine, picturing Bill’s face — 10 years old, cheeks smudged with dirt, eyes alight with mischief.
“I’ve waited too long to turn back now.”
***
We landed in a city of strangers, spring wind cold and biting. Mike rented a car, fingers drumming the wheel the whole drive.
“We should call the police, you know. Just in case.”
“If I’m wrong, I’ll live with that,” I said. “But if I’m right… I’m not risking losing him again because I waited for someone else to tell me what to do.”
As we neared the address, my stomach twisted. The houses were neat and ordinary; lawns freshly mowed, flags hanging proudly.
Mike parked outside a faded blue door. I stared at it, heart pounding.
“We should call the police.”
