Not James, Michael.

Sorry--I meant to post right after we got home last night, but everyone was so exhausted that bedtime became both more difficult and more critical . . . But. After eating something, Chris, James, Not James, Evan and I went out for a walk with Norbert. We'd decided to walk toward the school, thinking anyone who'd lost a kid there might have a similar plan. I got Chris to walk ahead with the boys, and tried to talk to our poor lost boy one-on-one. After we'd dropped behind the others a bit, he softened. He would only tell me about his family, not their names--his mom, formerly a journalist; his dad, who used to be a handyman in their apartment building; and his sister, who's a little older than Evan. They came from the east coast after both his parents lost their jobs in rapid succession. They had to leave the apartment building where his dad was a super, and without anywhere to go, they just got in the car. They drove to Minneapolis first, where his mom has a sister, but apparently family wasn't in a position to help. Gas prices being what they are, they had to stop a lot; his dad took on odd jobs while his mom took care of them. They camped whenever they could--actually, as awful as the uprooting and uncertainty sounded, he was clearly enamored of the camping, and of seeing the country. I'm sure there was some dark stuff, too, but we didn't get to that.

His name is Michael. Which I still might not know, except that as he was telling me excitedly about the night he heard racoons outside their tent, Michael's father started running toward us, yelling his name.

I've been writing about all of this with a certain nonchalance, minimizing for the audience some of the less attractive feelings--my initial, protective anger at the idea that anyone messed with James's identity; my concern over having a stranger in our living room, even a relatively harmless ten-year-old; my negative feelings about anyone who'd put their kid in this position. Watching this man find his lost son, though: woah. I defy anyone to watch that happen with dry cheeks. I immediately thought of what it would be like to lose track of James or Evan, even for an hour. God help me.

Anyway, he's Michael. His dad is Perry; eventually his mom, Veronica, caught up to us, too, with Jasmine strapped to her back in a carrier. Despite the weirdness of the situation, I liked them immediately--maybe mostly because they could hardly make eye contact with us, they were so worried/overjoyed about their kid. After the awkward flurry of bear hugs, weeping and introductions, Perry took me aside. "I owe you an apology," he said, and told the story of how they came to the decision to try to stay in Seattle and get their kids into school. "We're tired of moving," he said--and his voice sounded so weary, I believed it. Without a permanent address, they'd had trouble getting Michael registered for a decent school--the district wanted to send them to the school that's been set up for refugee families, and I don't blame them for wanting to avoid that at all costs. I've seen the place on the news . . . big tents, no books, kids that can barely be kept fed, let alone engaged and learning. He told me that the guy he'd bought the ID from had told him that the real James Byrne had moved away the previous week, and that Michael would be able to slip in undetected. Which, frankly, was almost the case--I still can't believe that no one noticed that a dark-haired ten-year-old was standing in for my tow-headed, eight-year-old son. Apparently the class is up to sixty now, and the aides circulate in and out all the time.

We ended up enviting them back to our place for tea. Given the happenings, I could tell Chris was wary of connecting with them, but we did a little married-person-telepathy, and he relented. We talked later that evening about how glad we were--Perry and Veronica were amazing. Like friends we would have made in college: funny, wry, intelligent, fun-loving. When the tea was finished, Chris uncorked one of the two bottles of wine we'd been saving for an occasion (not that it's anything special, the wine; just something we put away back with grocery money wasn't quite as tight). It was late before we realized it. Michael had fallen asleep next to Norbert on the floor. I jumped up to offer to drive them home, but I watched Perry and Veronica do some telepathy of their own, and turn us down firmly. Not ready, I guess, to show us where the live . . . which I think is either out of their car or in one of the camps. I get that, I guess. I'm not sure I'd broadcast it to new friends, either. I stopped Veronica on the way out, though, and told her we'd like to see them again, and help out if we could. With child care, maybe some communal dinners, whatever. I gave her my cell number, and made her promise to call. She said she would; I guess we'll see.