The nurse introduced herself as Margaret Wilson. Her hands trembled as she explained that the boy was named Daniel, seventeen years old. He had started bringing her coffee after noticing her sitting alone outside the hospital every morning. She had been recovering from a serious accident, and Daniel had somehow learned that she couldn’t afford the coffee she loved. What Margaret didn’t understand was why he had suddenly disappeared. She had called his phone dozens of times without receiving an answer. Then she told me something that made the situation even more troubling: Daniel wasn’t supposed to know her.

I examined the photograph again. Behind Daniel stood a younger woman wearing a hospital uniform. Margaret recognized her immediately. It was her daughter, Emily, who had died three years earlier. Margaret began crying as she explained that Daniel had been visiting her daughter’s grave. Before Emily died, she had mentioned a little boy she wanted to help. Margaret had never understood their connection. Then my telephone rang, and an unfamiliar voice whispered, “Tell Margaret to come to the old hospital tonight.”