Part 2
The words hung in the diner like smoke.
“You fed my son.”
The man’s voice was not loud. It did not need to be. It carried through the little room with a quiet certainty that made every sound around it seem suddenly too sharp—the rain tapping the windows, the refrigerator humming behind the counter, the faint pop of grease cooling on the stove.
I stood frozen with one hand still resting on the edge of the booth.
Misha sat beside me, wrapped in the towel I had given him, his small shoulders hunched as if he were trying to disappear inside it. His gray eyes had gone wide, but not with the kind of fear a child feels toward a stranger.
