Almost a year after my teenage son disappeared, I saw a homeless man walk into a café wearing my son's jacket — the one I had patched myself. When he said a boy gave it to him, I followed him to an abandoned house. What I found there changed everything I thought I knew about my son's disappearance.
The last time I saw my 16-year-old son, Daniel, he was standing in the hallway pulling on his sneakers, backpack hanging off one shoulder.
"Did you finish the history assignment?" I asked.
"Yes, Mom." He grabbed his jacket, then leaned over and kissed my cheek. "See you tonight."
Then the door closed, and he was gone. I stood at the window and watched him head down the street.
That evening, Daniel didn't come home.
