“A three-day sweep with sixty men is a thorough search for a three-year-old boy,” Thomas said. He signed the bottom of the permit with a quick, aggressive flourish of his pen. “The woods are deep out there. You know that.”
“I was at the rest stop today,” I said.
Thomas set the pen down on his desk calendar. The metal strap of his watch clinked against the wood.
“You need to stop visiting the highway, Margaret,” he said, his tone dropping into a lower, more authoritative register. “It has been eighteen years. Walking those shoulders is not safe, and it does not help anyone.”
“There was a toy in the dirt,” I said.
“There is always trash in the dirt near a rest stop,” Thomas said. He leaned forward, his gray eyes locking onto mine. “Go home. Let the people who are paid to handle these matters do their work.”
He picked up a stack of zoning files from his inbox, signaling the end of our meeting.
“You take care now, Margaret,” he said.
