The hospital corridor lights were blindingly white.
The smell of disinfectant was faint, cleaner than the farm clinic, and somehow less sharp than memory—almost pleasant.
Luke went into surgery; three of his fingers were pinned with steel pins.
Mom sat on a bench, clutching her old canvas bag, zipper halfway open.
She pulled out a stack of papers, hands trembling.
Missing-person flyers.
The top one was frayed at the edges. The photo showed a little girl missing a front tooth, clutching a toy dinosaur.
“That’s you at six,” her voice hoarse.
Underneath were twenty hand-drawn portraits.
“The police said a child’s face changes a little each year,” she said.
“So I saved up every year and had someone draw you from age six onward. Twenty portraits. They said… after the twentieth, it wou
