A cluster of teenagers leaned against graffiti-tagged walls, beer bottles glinting in their hands. Girls in tiny tops and shorter skirts giggled in groups, their laughs sharp and hollow. Somewhere deeper in, a fire crackled inside a rusted barrel, casting long, dancing shadows against the curved walls.

You spotted him before he saw you. Murphy, your son, standing at the edge of the crowd with a red plastic cup in his hand, laughing at something a tall figure said. He looked different—shoulders squared, chin up, a lazy smirk on his face you'd never seen before.

And then the tall figure turned.