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had barely known before he died. Slowly, tentatively, the boy reached out and took the man's hand. Luke helped him into the truck, and they drove in silence toward the town. The boy watched the forest recede in the side mirror, his heart aching with a grief he couldn't fully articulate. He had been abandoned before — by his father, by the various relatives who had taken them in only to turn them out, by a world that seemed to have no place for him. But this was different. This was his mother, the one person who had always been there, the one constant in his chaotic life. And now she was gone too. They drove through the town, past the church with its white clapboard and tall steeple, past the general store, past the diner. Luke finally pulled up in front of the sheriff's office, a small, squat building made of red brick. He helped the boy out of the truck and led him inside. The sheriff was a black man named Earl Washington, a portly, stern-faced man who seemed perpetually annoyed by the very existence of his job. He looked up from his desk when Luke and the boy entered, his eyes narrowing with suspicion. He had a thick neck and a neatly trimmed mustache, and his uniform seemed to strain against his ample belly. "What's this, Luke?" he asked, his voice dripping with condescension. "You got a stray you're trying to return?" Luke stood his ground, his voice calm but firm. "Found him at the edge of the forest, Sheriff. Says his mama left him there. He's a white boy, but he's all alone, and he's in bad shape. Needs some help." Sheriff Washington studied the boy with a mix of curiosity and disdain. He looked at the pale hair, the blue eyes, the filthy clothes. He looked at the way the boy was trembling, the way he clung to the photograph like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth. "What's your name, boy?" he demanded, his voice rough and impatient. The boy opened his mouth to answer, but the word wouldn't come. He was so tired, so hungry, so overwhelmed by everything that had happened that he couldn't speak. He just stood there, trembling, clutching his mother's photograph. Sheriff Washington sighed heavily, rubbing his temples. "Great. Just great. Another problem for me to deal with. Well, I can't keep him here. This ain't an orphanage. Take him to the church. The Reverend's always taking in strays. Let him deal with it." Luke nodded, his expression unreadable. He knew exactly what the sheriff was doing — passing the problem off onto the black community, as if they were responsible for every misfortune that befell the town. But he also knew that the Reverend Thomas was a good man, a man who would not turn away a child in need. So he took the boy's hand and led him out of the sheriff's office, back into the cold winter air. They walked together down Sycamore Street, past the neat little houses with their white picket fences, past the church with its bell tower rising against the darkening sky. Luke knocked on the door of the parsonage, a modest two-story house attached to the church, and waited. The door opened, and a woman stood there, her face kind and her eyes filled with warmth. She was in her late forties, with a strong, sturdy build and hair that was just beginning to show threads of gray. She wore a simple cotton dress and an apron,