was four years old, sitting on a red bicycle.
Beside me stood a dark-haired little boy.
One blue eye.
One nearly black.
Caleb.
Underneath the photograph was a bundle of letters.
The earliest had been written in a child’s careful handwriting.
“Dear Sarah, where did the little girl go? Did she take her bicycle? Please write back. Caleb.”
My throat tightened.
He hadn’t forgotten me.
Not even then.
I opened another.
Then another.
The handwriting slowly changed as the years passed.
One teenage letter contained folded bills.
“I saved this
