Dawson looked up.
"And the boy?"
Mom's eyes filled.
"He asked when he could go home."
By noon, we had located the woman.
Her name was Teresa Moore.
She was fifty-three and worked as a private childcare provider.
I didn't track her down through hospital records.
She found us.
Another anonymous message appeared on my phone.
I SENT THE PHOTOGRAPH. PLEASE MEET ME BEFORE THEY MOVE HIM.
Beneath it was the address of a small coffee shop.
Dawson and I went together.
Teresa was waiting in a corner booth.
She wore a gray coat and held a paper cup between trembling hands.
When she saw Dawson, she began crying.
"I'm sorry."
He sat opposite her.
"Do you know who I am?"
She nodded.
"You're Elliot's father."
Dawson covered his mouth.
For several seconds, he couldn't speak.
Then he whispered, "Is he alive?"
Teresa reached across the table.
"Yes."
The word seemed to shatter him.
