My hands were unsteady as I opened the glove compartment for the first time in six years. Inside lay a white envelope and a folded car title, both soft at the edges. The letter was written in shaky blue ink. “To whoever is kind enough to keep this car,” it began. “My name is Renee Dalton, and I am about to go into the hospital for a long time.”

I read the next line and had to grip the counter. “I have no family left, and I cannot take my son with me. If you are reading this, you did not sell the car, and that means you are the person I prayed would find it.” Behind me, Eli held his old bear tightly. I turned the page over, and the last line made my chest ache.