For most of my childhood, Victor had lived behind our little rental in a shelter made of tarps and scrap wood. My mother had fed him every day.
When I came back with the meal she had begged me to bring him, Victor was standing beside a black SUV in a clean coat, holding my mother’s silver locket.
The one she swore she had lost when I was eight.
Victor had lived behind our little rental.
“I thought you couldn’t come, Fiona,” he said.
I nearly dropped the container.
“Victor? How?”
He looked older without the beard. His eyes were red and tired.
Continue on the next page:
