The officers stopped at the foot of the stage. The taller one, a gray-haired man with a kind face, removed his cap and waited until the last chord faded. “Noah,” he said gently, “I am Officer Reyes. Do you remember the red pickup that stopped beside you last spring?” Noah’s fingers froze on the strings. I stood, confused and frightened. The officer turned to me. “Ma’am, your son is not in trouble. We have been looking for him for months.”

He held up a small plastic evidence bag. Inside was a worn silver harmonica engraved with the initials M.R. My breath caught. It was Michael’s, missing since the day we cleared out his things. “A man was arrested last month for stealing from storage units,” the officer said. “This was in his truck. Noah, you told the clerk at the music store this belonged to your dad.” Noah nodded, tears spilling down his cheeks.