The hospital called and said a little boy had listed me as his emergency contact. I laughed nervously and said, “That’s impossible. I’m 32, single, and I don’t have a son.”

“Yes.”

“This is St. Agnes Medical Center. We have a boy here. Your name is listed as his emergency contact.”

I stared at the phone, then pressed it tighter to my ear. “I’m sorry, what?”

“A minor. Male. About eleven years old. His name is Oliver.”

“I don’t have a son,” I said slowly. “I’m thirty-two and single. You must have the wrong Nora Ellison.”

There was a pause. Papers shuffled faintly. Then the nurse lowered her voice. “He keeps asking for you. Just come.”

My stomach knotted. “Who gave him my number?”

“We’re still trying to determine that. He was brought in after a traffic accident near Burnside. He’s conscious, but frightened. He has your full name, phone number, and address written on a card in his backpack.”