Rowan, don’t be dramatic about Megan.
Call me.
The last message came with a laughing emoji.
I turned the phone face down.
Then I searched Franklin shelters, roadside assistance logs, hospitals, church outreach programs, and every contact I could think of who might have seen a woman walking alone with infant twins. It took ninety minutes and more humility than I had practiced in years before I found her.
Not through my money.
Through a woman named Mrs. Alvarez who ran a small church pantry off a two-lane road east of town.
“Yes,” she said carefully when I described Megan. “She came by this afternoon. She wouldn’t take much. Diapers, some jars of peaches, bottled water. She said she was heading to a place where she could stay the night.”
“Where?”
Mrs. Alvarez’s silence sharpened.
I closed my eyes. “I understand why you don’t want to tell me.”
