The first time I saw him, he looked like something torn from a different world—small, barefoot, and trembling so hard it seemed his little bones might splinter from the effort.
He stood beside a dusty black sedan, tiny fists gripping the door handle like it was a lifeline. Like he believed, deep in his heart, that if he just held on hard enough, someone would come back.
No shoes. No jacket. No one calling his name.
The sun had already painted the back of his neck a raw red. His yellow T-shirt clung to his back, soaked through with sweat. The parking lot was a heatwave mirage—quiet, motionless, except for a few humming engines and a wind that carried no answers.
I got out of my car and knelt beside him, my heart climbing into my throat. “Hey, sweetheart… where’s your mom or dad?”
He looked up at me, eyes brimming with panic, and hiccuped through his sobs. “I wanna go back in.”
“In where?” I asked softly.
He pointed at the locked sedan. “The movie. I wanna go back in the movie.”
I blinked. “You were at the theater?”
He nodded like it should’ve been obvious. “I had popcorn. But then I wasn’t there anymore.”
