A week later, Eli vanished again.
This time from my own backyard. I’d turned my head for a second, and when I looked back—gone.
No footprints. No sound. Just the toy car he’d given me, resting on the porch like a goodbye.
I didn’t panic.
I didn’t call the police.
I understood now.
He wasn’t lost.
He was in transit.
Delivered, or delivering.
That same week, I signed up as a volunteer at a local youth shelter. Told myself I was giving back. But in my heart, I knew I was waiting.
Waiting for the next knock.
