Amber Alert by Dan Lawton

The mail is mostly garbage— bills, junk, and local advertisements— but right in the middle of the stack, one of the envelopes catches Abby’s attention. It’s not like the others. It’s solid white, unsecured, and missing a stamp from the upper right corner. There’s no return address and Abby’s name is handwritten in the center. It’s out of place.

Abby opens that one first.

She moves it to the top of the stack and flips it over, then slices the back with the white tip of her nail. The seal breaks quickly, a sticky dampness transferring to Abby’s fingertip. Inside the envelope is a single sheet of lined

paper, torn and folded in half like that of a note one might pass around in junior high. Curiously, Abby unfolds the note and reads it.

FOUND YOU.

Abby nearly drops to the blacktop.

The two words are written in uppercase letters and scribbled in pencil, much like Abby’s name is on the front of the envelope. The handwriting is amateurish, childlike,

like whomever wrote it hasn’t written anything in a while.

Abby recognizes it. She’s seen that handwriting before, and after a moment, she remembers from where. From whom.