Elm Street Bridge rose out of the rain like something cold and forgotten. Beneath it were shopping carts, tarps, milk crates, and the careful little arrangements that told Sean people had been sleeping there for a long time. Leo slowed for the first time all afternoon. He stopped near a pair of men arguing over a radio, then backed away and tried another cluster farther down. This time, he held up the photograph with both hands, as if urging people to take him seriously. Most barely glanced. One waved him off. Another muttered that kids should go home before dark.
Then an older woman in a knitted cap looked from the picture to Leo’s face and softened. She said she thought she knew the man. Sean was just near enough to make out her words, more through the movement of her lips. “River boats now,” she said, jerking her chin toward the marina. “Repair yard past the fence.” Leo thanked her so fast the words tangled together, then spun and ran. Sean saw the reversing truck half a second before Leo did. He lunged forward, grabbed the back of the boy’s backpack, and yanked him off the road just as the truck rolled through. Leo twisted around, wet hair plastered to his forehead, eyes wild. “I have to find him,” he shouted, voice cracking. Then he tore free and slipped through a gap in the chain-link fence.