He had recognized me from the old posters.
But he was too ashamed to tell me the truth face-to-face.
So he left the photo in my car.
Half an hour later, Rachel drove me to a lumberyard.
A man was carrying wooden boards near the back.
He was grown now.
Strong.
Tired.
A stranger.
But the second I saw him, my soul knew.
“Ethan,” I whispered.
He turned and frowned.
“Can I help you?”
My voice broke.
“My son’s name was Ethan.”
He shook his head.
“My name is Michael.”
Nothing I said reached him.
Not Route 9.
Not the gas station.
Not the posters.
Not my tears.
Then I remembered.
I ran to a nearby store and bought a cold bottle of Sprite.
When I placed it in his hands, his expression changed.
He stared at the bottle for a long time.
Then his lips parted.
“There was a vending machine,” he whispered.
