I returned to the quiet little town I once called home as a desperate father looking for answers. My son, Ethan, had vanished without his phone or wallet, leaving his window cracked open and his bed cold. Every lead slipped through my fingers—until a chilling Facebook notification appeared on my screen:
“Come quickly, he’s here.”
My heart hammered as I rushed into the corner store where the bell jingled overhead. The clerk barely glanced up from his phone.
“Can I help you?” he asked, flat and uninterested.
I handed him a crumpled school photo. “This is my son, Ethan. Sixteen. Have you seen him?”
He squinted at the picture. “I know the kid, but I haven’t seen him in weeks.” His tone sharpened. “Why are you looking for him? And where are you from?”
It stung to be questioned like that. “I’m his father,” I replied, the word feeling strange after so many years apart.
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