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people there had looked at him with suspicion. He couldn't follow his mother; she had told him to stay. So he stayed. He sat down on a fallen log at the edge of the forest, hugging his knees to his chest, and waited. Hours passed. The sun rose higher, but its weak winter warmth did little to chase away the chill. The boy's stomach growled, but he had grown accustomed to hunger. It was an old companion, one that had followed him from town to town, from cheap motel room to even cheaper boarding house. He looked at the photograph of his mother, tracing her face with his frozen finger. Where had she gone? Why had she left him? The questions swirled in his young mind, but he had no answers. He had never had answers. His life had been a series of unanswered questions, a puzzle he was too young to solve. As the afternoon shadows began to lengthen, he heard a sound. It was the rumbling of a truck engine, growing louder as it approached. He looked up, hope flaring in his chest. Could it be his mother? Had she changed her mind? But it wasn't his mother. It was a pickup truck, old and rusted, driven by a black man in his sixties. The man had a kind face, weathered by years of hard work and hard living, with deep lines around his eyes and a thick, graying beard. He wore a flannel shirt and a worn jacket, and his hands, resting on the steering wheel, were calloused and rough. He slowed down when he saw the boy sitting alone at the edge of the forest. He peered at him through the grimy windshield, his brow furrowed with concern. He pulled the truck over and got out, his boots crunching on the frozen gravel. "Hey there, son," the man said, his voice gentle but cautious. "What you doing out here all by yourself? You lost?" The boy looked up at him, his pale blue eyes huge in his thin face. He tried to speak, but his throat was raw from crying, and only a hoarse whisper came out. "My mama... she went away." The man knelt down, his old knees creaking in protest. He studied the boy's face, seeing the dirt, the hunger, the profound sadness etched into his young features. He saw the photograph clutched in the boy's hand, and he understood immediately that this was a child in trouble, a child who had been abandoned like a stray puppy on the side of the road. "Where did she go, son?" the man asked softly. The boy pointed toward the dark, brooding forest. "In there. She told me to stay. She told me someone would find me." The man sighed, a deep, weary sound that seemed to come from the very depths of his soul. He was a father himself, a grandfather too, and the sight of this lost, frightened child stirred something deep and protective within him. He looked around, scanning the empty road, the silent forest, the distant town. There was no one else coming. This child was alone, and it was getting dark, and the temperature was dropping rapidly. He made a decision. "Alright, son," he said, reaching out a hand. "My name's Luke. Luke Johnson. I'm gonna take you into town, alright? We'll find someone who can help you." The boy hesitated. He had been taught to be wary of strangers, especially men. But Luke Johnson had kind eyes, the kind of eyes that reminded him of his grandfather, a man he