We reached the farmhouse a little after sunset, and a gray sedan was parked in our driveway. An older man sat on the porch steps with a thick folder resting on his knees. Mom stopped walking the moment she saw him. “Walter Briggs,” she whispered. He stood slowly and nodded. “Margaret. Cooper told me what happened today. That was my son.”

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