Lucas.

Lucas. A stranger, sitting alone somewhere, practicing my name until she owned it, so that she could sign away my son’s life in my hand.

They also found copies of my flight logs.

My crop-dusting schedule for the entire season.

A newspaper photograph, clipped from the local agricultural Gazette, of my yellow biplane spraying a field.

And suddenly the impossible timing made a terrible kind of sense.

Our dusting schedules were posted publicly at the hangar.