James felt the world tilt. Two years of grief, dead-end leads, sleepless nights, and police reports that always ended the same way: presumed deceased. And now this child, standing in a garbage field, offering him the impossible.
He followed her without another word.
They moved through the labyrinth of refuse—past rusted car shells, towers of crushed cardboard, mounds of plastic bottles glinting like jewels in the sunlight. Elena walked with purpose, never glancing back to see if he was still there.
At last she stopped beside an improvised shelter: a lean-to made of corrugated metal and blue tarp, tucked against the side of an abandoned shipping container.
Inside the shade, a boy sat cross-legged on flattened boxes, drawing in the dust with a stick. Thin. Sunburned. Hair too long. But the face—God, the face—was unmistakable.
Daniel looked up. His stick fell from his fingers.
“Dad?”
James dropped to his knees in the dirt. “Daniel…”