I LET A HOMELESS BOY SLEEP IN THE BACK ROOM OF A GAS STATION FOR TWO WINTERS. MY MANAGER FIRED ME AND CALLED ME A THIEF IN FRONT OF EVERYONE. SIX YEARS LATER, ON THE MORNING I WAS BEING EVICTED, THAT SAME BOY RETURNED—WEARING A FIRE DEPARTMENT UNIFORM AND CARRYING SOMETHING THAT CHANGED MY LIFE FOREVER.

Eventually, they reached Duluth.

Jesse found occasional work unloading deliveries and cleaning a warehouse. Danny helped whenever he could.

But neither had a stable place to sleep.

“Jesse talked about you all the time,” Danny said. “He told me you made the best pancakes. He said you used to sing while doing laundry.”

I began to cry.

I had forgotten that.

I used to sing old songs on Saturday mornings while folding clothes. Jesse would complain that I was embarrassing him, but he always smiled.

Danny continued.

“He carried your photograph in his backpack. He showed it to me once and said he wanted to go home.”

“Why didn’t he?”

“He was ashamed.”

I shook my head.

“Of what?”

“Of leaving. Of not having a job. Of being unable to fix things.”

I thought of the countless missing-person flyers I had posted.

I had imagined him angry with me.

I had imagined he never wanted to see me again.