“The dispatcher said you called about a lost child,” Paul said. “She said you were calling him Euan.”
“Just come look at him,” I said, turning back toward the light.
We walked into the living room together. Euan was still sitting on the sofa, his face half-hidden by the green wool blanket.
Paul stopped three feet from the sofa. He stared at the boy, his jaw tightening until a small muscle twitched in his cheek.
“Martha,” Paul whispered, not looking at me. “This is not possible.”
“Look at his chin, Paul. Look at his ears.”
Paul knelt down on the worn carpet, his leather belt creaking in the quiet room. He reached out a hand, then let it drop back to his knee.
“Who brought you here, son?” Paul asked, his voice softer than I had ever heard it.
Euan did not look at Paul. He looked down at his own small fingers, twisting the edge of the blanket.
“I walked,” Euan said. “I ran through the trees.”
“Where did you run from?” Paul asked.
