We reached the farmhouse a little after sunset, and a gray sedan was parked in our driveway. A man in his sixties sat on the porch steps with a thick folder on his knees, his shoulders bent like he had been waiting for hours. Mom set her handbag down slowly and said, “Walter Briggs.” He stood and nodded. “Margaret. Cooper told me what happened today. That was my son.”

My mouth went dry. Walter held out the folder with both hands. “I didn’t come to beg for his job. I came because he needs to hear something, and so do you.” He opened it. On top lay a yellowed transcript and a photograph of a muddy creek, a car half under brown water. Mom’s face went completely white. “Walter,” she whispered, “that boy in the car was nine years old.” He nodded, tears running down his cheeks. “That boy was Daniel.”