“Ca-reepy,” Ciara whispers. 

I smack her leg.

“What?” She crosses her arms. “Kids freak me out.”

It is a little weird, the way he’s so still and silent. But he looks cute, and anyways, five year olds are as harmless as it gets.

“Hey buddy.” I hold my hand out to him. “Where are you supposed to be?”

Instead of answering, he comes up to me and wraps his little arms around my neck in a hug. My heart immediately melts.

Summer cranes her head, trying to look around the aisle. “Where’s his mom?”

Good question. There’s no one else around, and nobody’s come in for at least five minutes. 

I pull back a little so I can see his face. “Can you tell me your name?”

He doesn’t answer, or shake his head, or anything. Just blinks big, dark eyes up at me. Maybe he doesn’t speak English?

“¿Hablas español?”

No reaction. 

“Parli italiano?” It’s a long shot, but it’s the only other language I know.

The kid just lays his head on my shoulder and makes this soft, tired sound. I glance at Summer. “Can you try?”

She gets down on eye level with the boy and says, in perfect French, “Salut, mignon. Parles-tu français? Où est ta maman?”

Again, nothing. Luckily, the training videos they had us sit through for hours included instructions on what to do in the case of a lost kid. I carefully scoop him up, not wanting to make him let go of me, and walk us over to the store phone.

“Would the parents or guardians of the little boy, about five, brown hair brown eyes, please come to Aisle 11?”

I repeat the message in Spanish, and then have Summer do it in French, just in case the family is one of the rare Québec immigrants that come through sometimes. She’s barely finished when we hear a shopping cart rattling quickly towards us.

“Owen!” A middle aged woman, looking exhausted, stops short when she sees me holding who I assume is her son. “Oh my word, I am so sorry.”

The boy, Owen, looks up when he hears her. He doesn’t say anything, or reach for her, but he lets me set him down. His mom takes his hand and pulls him close to her, rubbing comforting circles on his back. The fact that she isn’t angry is a relief.

“It’s no problem,” I tell her. “He’s a sweetheart.”

Owen, arms wrapped around his mother’s leg, turns his head to look at me. The eyes peering out from a cloud of unruly hair make me think of a little bird in its nest. 

“He never acts like this with strangers,” the woman admits, and I hear the question she doesn’t ask. Why you?

“Well, I’ve always been told I’m a kid at heart, so maybe he just recognized one of his own,” I joke. An idea comes to me. “I do babysit, though, if you’re ever looking for someone.”

Being recently fired myself, I could use the work.

Owen’s mom hesitates, brushing back a strand of hair the same color as her son’s. “I couldn’t pay you.”

Bummer. 

This is the part where I tell her okay, let it go, and leave her to finish her shopping. I’m supposed to be finding a second job that pays, or taking on more hours at my current job. Six apartments in three weeks leaves a horrible paper trail and more than one lost rent check, and the Walshs’ severance pay only stretches so far.

But Owen is still looking at me. He reminds me of the kids I left behind back in a sleepy city in Ireland. I hear myself saying, “That’s okay, I don’t mind.”

His mom frowns. Probably trying to figure out if I’m creepy, desperate, or both. What kind of person volunteers to hang out with a kid she’s just met for free?

I open my mouth to tell her to forget it, but then she says, “It would have to be at your house.”

She doesn’t offer any explanation for that, and the stubborn way she tips her chin up makes it clear she doesn’t want to. 

“Oh.” I deflate. “I’m sorry, I don’t think I can do that.” Poor Owen doesn’t deserve to get caught up in my curse drama. Especially if Ciara’s right about the next twist. 

The nod Owen’s mom gives me somehow comes off both relieved and disappointed. “I understand. Thank you for your help, though.” She smooths a hand over Owen’s head, glancing down with obvious tenderness. “Owen, say thank you to the nice lady.”

Owen flashes me a shy, lopsided, and dimpled smile. The dimples do me in. I can’t say no to dimples.

“Wait.” I pull out a sticky note from my register and jot down two phone numbers and, before I can think twice about it, an address. “The first number is mine, the second is a reference. And that’s where I live. I’ll make it work. Oh, and I’m Lissa, by the way.” 

My mention of a reference makes her relax. For the first time, the smile she gives me seems genuine, and not as worried. I assume it’s because people with references are probably less likely to secretly be members of a child kidnapping ring. “Nice to meet you, Lissa. I’m Hannah. And I’ll be giving you a call.” 

I wave goodbye as they head towards Whitney’s register to check out. The moment they’re out of sight, I could kick myself. What did I just do? 

The address I gave her was Aunt Meryem’s house.

I am such a sucker.