Birthplace.
Previous address.
Family.
She could only remember that people had started calling her Ruth years earlier because she needed a name for a temporary shelter roster.
Then Daniel saw her scar.
“You told me about your mother’s greenhouse accident years ago,” he said.
“That proves nothing.”
“I know.”
“So why bring her here?”
“Because she also kept humming a song.”
My stomach tightened.
“What song?”
Daniel hesitated.
Then quietly hummed four notes.
Four simple notes.
A melody from an old James Taylor song my mother used to sing badly while making Saturday breakfast.
I stared at him.
“You should have told me.”
“And what if I had been wrong?”
I couldn’t answer.
Daniel continued.
