I’ve always believed the road shows you what you need to see. That night on Route 47 proved it.
Just after midnight, after six hours of riding, a deer exploded into my headlight. I swerved, hit it lightly, and pulled over. The deer lay still, but at the edge of the woods, I saw movement. Not an animal—something smaller, human.
A little boy, maybe six, barefoot and filthy in thin pajamas, sat with his knees pulled to his chest. His eyes held the thousand-yard stare I’d seen in soldiers overseas—the look of someone the world had already broken.
I spoke softly, told him my name, said I wouldn’t hurt him. He didn’t respond. He didn’t even move. I set my jacket down beside him, turned to grab my phone—and he followed, gripping my hand tight, desperate, silent. Don’t leave me.
I called 911, staying crouched beside him, wrapping him in my jacket with one arm while dialing with the other. He never let go, even when the deputies and paramedics arrived. At the ER, the bruises became clear—weeks-old, fading in layers. The child was identified as Ethan Parker, missing for three days.
When his parents arrived, Ethan refused to go with them. “No,” he whispered to me, clinging tighter. It wasn’t fear of strangers—it was terror from the people who were supposed to protect him. Authorities intervened, and Ethan was placed somewhere safe, beginning the slow work of rebuilding trust.
I visit him when I can. Piece by piece, he’s finding his voice again. That night, the road led me to a child who couldn’t speak but needed someone to listen. And I did.