Curtis would not give me a name, but he agreed to call the man and pass along mine. Walter Moore phoned back within the hour, his voice thin and careful. He was Daniel’s older brother. He told me he had stood on the riverbank the evening I threw the locket, a young man of twenty-two who could not find the courage to speak.
At dawn he waded in and found it caught in the reeds. Daniel had been struck by a truck on the county road on the night of August 14, riding his bike to my house to say goodbye before his family moved. Walter tucked the wristband inside the locket, meaning to bring me both. My mother met him at the door, and he left with nothing but her shut face.
