Danny walked home through the snow with the brass key warm in his pocket and the promise warm in his chest, and he knew, the way you know things at nine years old when they're true all the way down, that he would keep it.
Chapter 6: Gone
The first night, Hank told himself the boy was sick. Kids got sick in February. The cold got into everything that month, under the door of the diner and into Hank's bad knee and into the bones of every house on the block. A kid with no coat worth the name would catch something. He'd be back when he was better.
The second night, Hank put the cocoa on anyway, on the back counter where Danny always sat. It went cold. Marge watched him pour it out and said nothing, which was worse than her talking.
By the seventh night, Hank put on his coat.
"You going somewhere?" Marge asked.
"Out."
"Out where, Hank? You walk like a three-legged dog in this weather."
"Out," he said again, and took the keys off the hook.
He knew the Barkers' house. Everybody in Millbrook knew the gray one on the corner of Pine and Third, dead bushes out front, blinds that never opened all the way. Hank had driven past it a hundred times and never once stopped. Now he stood on the porch with his knee aching and knocked on a door that felt like it had been painted shut.
It took a long time. Then the porch light came on, and Mrs. Barker opened the door six inches.
"Mrs. Barker," Hank said. "I'm Hank Callahan. From the Blue Plate."
"I know who you are," she said.
"I'm looking for Danny."
Something moved behind her eyes, but her face didn't change. It was like watching water freeze.
"He's been coming by the diner," Hank said. "He hasn't come all week. I wanted to make sure he's all right."
Mrs. Barker stared at him. The porch light buzzed above them.
"Danny doesn't live here anymore," she said.
"Since when?"
"Since the end of January." Her voice was flat, like she was reading a receipt. "He's gone."
"Gone where?"
"That is a county matter." She started to close the door.
Hank put his hand against it. He didn't push. He just held it there, and his hand was bigger than the gap.
"Lady," he said, "that boy ate dinner at my place for four months. You are going to tell me where he is."
She looked at his hand. Then at his face. Something in her own face finally gave way, just a crack.
"We gave him up," she said. "He was too much trouble. The county came and got him." The door closed. The porch light went off.
Hank stood on the dark porch a while. Then he walked back to his truck, one careful step at a time, his knee screaming with every one.
He called the county office the next morning from the diner's wall phone. Put on hold three times. Finally a tired voice said, "Children's services, this is Carla Voss."
"Ms. Voss, my name is Hank Callahan. I own the Blue Plate Diner in Millbrook."
"Oh," she said. "Mr. Callahan. Yes." A pause. "What can I do for you?"
"I'm calling about a boy. Danny Cole. He was with the Barkers."
A longer pause. Paper shuffling on her end.
"Mr. Callahan, are you family?"
"No, ma'am."
"Then I'm afraid I can't tell you much. Confidentiality."
"Ma'am." Hank leaned his forehead against the wall. "I'm not trying to cause trouble. That boy ate at my diner almost every night for four months. He's nine years old. The Barkers told me he's gone. I just need to know he's all right."
The shuffling stopped.
"You're the diner man," Carla Voss said quietly. "He talked about you."
Hank's chest did something he didn't like. "He did?"
"In his intake." She sighed. "Mr. Callahan, I'll tell you what I can. The Barkers surrendered the placement. Danny was moved to a group home. It's in Fairview."
"Fairview," Hank said. "That's two counties over."
"Yes."
"Can I see him? A number? An address?"
"I'm sorry. Placements are confidential unless you're an approved contact." Her voice softened. "But he asked about you. He asked if I would tell you he was all right."
Hank closed his eyes. "Tell him," he said, rough. "Tell him the door's still open."
"I will," she said. "Mr. Callahan? For what it's worth, you did a good thing."
He hung up and stood there a minute. Then he went back to the grill, because the lunch rush was starting and the world didn't stop for anybody, not even for a nine-year-old boy two counties over.
That night after closing, Hank went out to the alley.
It was empty. It had always been empty before Danny, and now it was empty again, and Hank couldn't decide which was worse. The snow had drifted against the back door and nobody had shoveled it, because the only person who ever shoveled the alley was a nine-year-old boy who was gone.
Hank reached into his pocket and took out the spare back-door key. He'd had the locksmith cut it the same day he gave Danny the first one, because a man didn't give away his only key. It was brass, same as the other, and it sat heavy in his palm.
Behind him, the back door opened. Marge came out with her coat on and her purse over her arm, and she stood next to him a long time without saying anything. Cold air came out of their mouths in little clouds.
"He's all right," Hank said finally. "The social worker said he's all right."
"I know, sugar."
"Two counties over. Fairview. Group home." He turned the key over in his hand. "I gave him a key, Marge. Told him he'd never go hungry. And he's gone."
"He ain't gone, Hank." Marge put her hand on his arm. No teasing in her voice at all. "He's just somewhere else. There's a difference."