He wiped his face.
“I went to every shelter. Every recovery center. I showed his picture to every guy who looked like he’d been on the street a while. I did it for six years, Mrs. K. Even after I got into the fire academy. Even after I got clean myself.”
“And?” I said. I could barely breathe.
“Two months ago, I was on a medical call at a sober living house in St. Paul. A guy there saw the photo sticking out of my jacket pocket and went white.”
Danny glanced toward the truck.
“He said, ‘Where did you get my jacket?’”
The driver’s door swung open, and a thin man of twenty-seven stepped onto the street. He had a beard I’d never seen, but the shape of his shoulders was unmistakably my husband’s. He stayed beside the pickup, looking almost too frightened to come toward me.
