When Michael saw them up close, the resemblance stole his breath. Brown curls dulled by dirt. And when they lifted their eyes—green with flecks of gold—his heart nearly stopped. Laura’s eyes.
“Please don’t hurt us, sir,” said the older one, shielding the smaller boy. “We’ll leave. We didn’t mean any trouble.”
Michael couldn’t speak.
Ethan had no such hesitation. He ran over with his backpack and pulled out a packet of chocolate cookies.
“Here. My dad can buy more.”
The boys stared at it like treasure. The older one took a cookie, split it carefully, and handed the bigger piece to the younger.
“Thank you,” they said together.
Even their voices sounded like Ethan’s.
“What are your names?” Michael asked, kneeling on the dirty ground without caring about his suit.
“I’m Noah,” the older boy said. “And this is Owen.”
Noah and Owen.
The names Laura had once chosen if they’d ever had triplets—a joke they’d whispered during her complicated pregnancy, the one that ended with her death and only one surviving baby. Or so Michael had been told.
“Where are your parents?” he asked, barely steady.