Chapter 11 - The Tin Box Under the Bed
A woman named Marisol Alvarez asked to meet me at a diner near the county courthouse. Eli had stayed with her for two weeks after June's funeral. She'd been a neighbor, not a licensed caregiver, and she'd tried to help until the county arranged placement.
“He didn't run away because he was difficult,” she told me. “He ran because every time adults promised something, the plan changed without anyone telling him.”
She slid a tin box across the table. The lid was decorated with blue stars.
“June asked me to keep this if she couldn't. Eli gave me permission to show it to you.”
Inside were birthday cards, a photograph of June teaching Eli to ride a bike, and copies of letters June had sent Horizon requesting stable care while she underwent treatment. Each letter included a request that her son be allowed to contact his birth mother if he wanted to.
One letter carried a handwritten reply from Vivian: CLAIRE IS UNAVAILABLE. DO NOT CONTACT DIRECTLY.
“How could my mother answer for me?” I whispered.
Marisol shook her head. “I don't know. But I know June kept asking.”
At the bottom lay a small envelope addressed to Eli. His name was written in the careful block letters June used on his lunch bags. Inside was a note: When people tell you you're too much trouble, remember how much I wanted you. You were never the trouble.
I cried into my coffee. Marisol let me.
Then she told me that one week before June died, a Horizon administrator had come to collect the box. June refused to hand it over.
“Who was the administrator?” I asked.
May you like
Marisol pointed at a photograph on her phone.
It was Gordon Pike.
