“I was six,” James said. “After the accident, I went into care. Different homes. Different towns. That part of my life got blurry fast.” He exhaled. “But I remembered pieces of the house. The yard. The back room.”
Brian looked at the box on the kitchen table. “If you want to come by,” he said, “you should.” There was no pause. “I do.” James arrived the next morning just after eleven. Brian saw him through the front window and opened the door before he could knock.