Near dusk, Leo reached a soup kitchen by the freight road, the kind of place that served meals without asking too many questions. Sean lingered beneath the awning while rain tapped against metal gutters overhead. Leo went inside for less than a minute, then came back out speaking to a volunteer in a plastic poncho. Sean couldn’t hear the full exchange over the trucks growling past, only broken pieces: “used to come by,” “not lately,” “maybe by the river.” The volunteer pointed down a service road that curved toward the industrial waterfront. Leo looked at the photo again, tightened his backpack straps, and headed that way.
The city changed fast after that. Shop windows gave way to chain-link fences, rusted warehouses, and muddy lots spotted with puddles. The sidewalks cracked. The streetlights were farther apart. Twice Sean lost sight of Leo behind parked box trucks and felt his stomach drop before spotting the child again, always moving, always scanning faces. At the end of one block, Leo paused beside a pay phone no one used anymore and studied the envelope in his hand as if trying to read courage from it. Sean could see that the boy was scared now. But whatever answer he believed was waiting ahead mattered more to him than the fear.