He brought his dad a sandwich every day. He didn’t know which day his dad would come out.

The man walked out of prison and stepped past his own son.

Eight-year-old Noah stood beside the gate with a peanut butter sandwich wrapped in a paper towel. He had waited there for twenty-three mornings. His sneakers were soaked from the rain, but he held the sandwich high to keep it dry.

The man kept walking.

“Dad?” Noah said.

Daniel Mercer stopped so suddenly the bag in his hand slipped to the pavement. For a second, he only stared. The boy in front of him was taller than the one he remembered. His hair had grown over his ears. But those were still Noah’s eyes.

“Noah?”

“I brought you breakfast.” Noah tried to smile. “You never liked the prison food.”

Daniel dropped to his knees. Noah ran into him hard enough to knock the air from his chest. Daniel held him there, one hand against the back of his head, afraid that if he let go, someone would take him away again.

Then he noticed the faded bruise on Noah’s wrist.

“Who did that?”

Noah pulled his sleeve down. “I fell.”

A car door slammed across the street. A woman in a gray coat hurried toward them.

“Noah! Get over here.”

Noah’s arms tightened around his father’s neck. “Please don’t let her take me.”

Daniel looked up at the woman. He had never seen her before.

She raised her phone. “I’m calling the police.”