Durante dos inviernos, permití que un niño sin hogar fuera de casa dormira en la habitación trasera de la gasolinera donde trabajaba durante la noche. Mi gerente me despidió delante de los clientes. —Eres un ladrón —dijo—.

“¿Estás manejando un refugio para personas sin hogar en mi moneda, Marlene?” Él gritó.

“Es un niño, Doug. No tiene a dónde ir”.

“He’s a junkie,” Doug said. “And you’ve been feeding him my hot dogs. That’s stealing.”

Everyone watched. A customer in a Vikings cap abandoned his coffee and left.

“I’ll pay for every hot dog,” I said.

“You’ll pay, all right,” Doug said. “You’re fired. Get out before I call the cops. And don’t bother asking anybody in Duluth for a reference. I’ll make sure they know you’re a thief.”

Danny me enfrentó, llorando.

—Lo siento, señora K.”

By that evening, there was no trace of Danny. Jesse’s coat disappeared with him, and I had no way to find either of them. A week later, I remembered my last photograph of my son was inside its pocket.