“Just a little place across town,” Hannah said.
“Is it quiet?”
“Usually.”
“Does he handle it okay?”
“He loves it.”
I remember smiling.
I thought my son was learning how to tolerate the world.
I never imagined the world inside that diner was learning something from him.
Diane led me past the kitchen.
A cook glanced at me, then quickly looked away.
That made me even more uneasy.
“Where are we going?”
“Back office.”
We passed shelves of canned tomatoes and industrial-size containers of syrup before reaching a narrow hallway.
At the end stood a blue door.
Diane opened it.
Inside was a tiny office with an old desk, two filing cabinets, a printer and a corkboard covering nearly the entire far wall.
The corkboard was filled with photographs.
Hundreds of them.
For several seconds, I didn’t understand what I was seeing.
Then I noticed Mason.
Eight years old.
