The grey eyes — that exact, uncommon grey.

The angle of the jaw.

And, at the outer edge of his left eyebrow, a tiny distinct notch, a small break in the line of it, that I had first noticed not on my son but on the man now standing over him, and had seen, once, in a framed portrait, on that man’s grandfather.

Mason looked up from the slush, wet and shaking, and spoke to the stranger in the beautiful coat in a voice that was small but did not waver.

“Mister.

Please don’t yell at my mommy.