The August sun felt like a warm hand pressed against the shoulders of everyone at Sequoia Park Plaza in Santa Fe, New Mexico. Vendors called out about lemonade and kettle corn, a guitar player strummed near a bench, and tourists lifted their phones to photograph the bubbling fountain surrounded by climbing roses. It was the kind of place where ordinary afternoons stretched in golden laziness and nothing unexpected ever happened.
Or so Breanna Sloane had always believed. Breanna stood near a shaded bench, her five year old son Mason perched against her leg. They had come for snow cones and fresh air, a tiny escape from the pressure of bills and the late shifts she worked at the diner. Mason held his cherry snow cone like it was a priceless jewel, red syrup dripping down his wrist.
He stared toward the fountain and said, with a quiet intensity, “Mom. He is right there. The boy from my dreams.”
Breanna thought he meant one of the performers. She smiled gently and followed his gaze. “What boy, sweetheart. Someone you know from preschool.”
Mason shook his head. “No. He was in your tummy with me. I saw him before I was born.”