The manager gently took the phone.

“Ma’am, the police are on their way.

He’s safe with me.

Come home.”

Six days.

My son had been living alone for six days, while my husband texted me every morning to swear that everything was fine.

I remember hanging up and standing in that dark kitchen and not being able to move for a moment, because two truths had to fit into me at once and there wasn’t room.

My son was safe — a kind stranger had him, the police were coming, he had eaten.