When Gideon reached him, his frail body was wracked with shivers, and the muck on his face was streaked with tears that had long since dried.
Come on, Gideon had said. Come here, son. I'm with the FBI, we've got you, you're safe.
Even today, the boy can feel the same clear-water rush of relief, remember the taste of the blood on his cracked lips and the musty smell of Gideon's jacket. (He had buried his face under the agent's collar and refused to move until pried away by his mother.)
Come here, son. I'm with the FBI, we've got you, you're safe.
The letter in Gideon's hand is written in solid, blocky writing (strong, confident), and contains a picture (one year older and he looks nearly like a man, now, and after eight years his smile is that much wider).
The signature smudges as the agent runs his thumb across it, and he smiles, and remembers.
(The feel of his arms protecting a child stretch out and become the feel of returning him to life, to this.)