Why’d you keep this dirty old thing?” I took it from him, folded it into a neat square, and set it in the console.

“Because sometimes the most uncomfortable warning from a total stranger is the thing that saves your life.” He watched the trees blur past.

“Was Uncle Dax always a monster?

Even when he was my age?” I thought about how to answer him honestly.

“I don’t think anyone is born a monster, Cody.

I think people become what they choose when they’re handed power — and when they let fear talk them into believing a lie is easier than doing what’s right.” A week later, under a clean blue Baltimore sky, we stood at Porter’s grave and laid down white lilies, and Cody set a small die-cast truck at the base of the stone.

“Dad,” he whispered.