I come across the missing teenager in the back of the Dollar General frozen section comparing ice cream sandwiches. M&M or chocolate chip. I’d seen his picture circulating on Facebook. The flop of curls, the shine of acne. A post by his dad: PLEASE FIND OUR SON CROSBY. ESCAPED OUR HOME. ANY HELP. I had liked the post.

He catches me staring and offers one of the ice cream sandwiches. I take it. He peels the wrapper and bites into his own.

“Your dad is looking for you,” I say.

He looks left and right, as if scanning for his father, and shrugs. A performance, just for me. He smiles and his gold braces glint in the fluorescent lighting. It’s an expectant smile, demanding one in return.

“You should go home. Your family misses you,” I say as I continue to shop. A suggestion. I’ve never been brave, never had a need for it. It’s a trait for Green Berets and Hollywood heroes.

“No,” the missing boy says.

“Your family treat you alright?” I hate how feeble my voice sounds.

“No. My dad makes me dress up and wear pigtails and sing him karaoke.” He starts singing a rendition of “Man! I Feel Like a Woman!”

An older woman pushing a cart of cereal, deli meat, and windshield wiper fluid turns into our aisle. We shift over and wait for her to pass.

“I’ll go home with you. You got a nice house?” He talks like he looks—cocksure.

“I have, well.” I think of my two daughters and how trusting they are, as I’ve never taught them otherwise. I pass him the ice cream sandwich melting in my hand and he eats it in two bites. Chomp chomp. I open the freezer door to grab two frozen Pad Thai meals, two fully loaded personal pizzas, and stack them in my basket. The cold air presses out and cools the sweat beads racing down my bald scalp.

“A what?” He follows up, wiping sticky fingers on the back of his jeans.

“A family.”

“Family man,” the missing boy says in mocking admiration. I don’t know how to talk to teenage boys; Not even when I was a teenage boy. He watches me closely now and I can see how he sees me: old. I don’t feel old, but that’s how he sees me, so that’s what I am.

“Yeah.”

“Securing the family dinner. A provider.” He points at my basket.

I glance up at the security camera, nestled in the corner above the bathroom sign. He turns, finds it too, and waves. If I started my life over, could I be a boy like him? Waving and smiling? I know the answer, but the question emerges regardless.

“Yeah, come hang out at my house,” I tell him. His family will pick him up, surely. The police. Someone. I grab another personal pizza because everyone eats pizza.

“Fun!” he barks and gestures for me to come closer. He props the freezer door open with a knee and loads up my basket with ice cream sandwiches.

“Oh, sure,” I say. An ice cream night could be fun. Special occasion.

“Here, let me take that for you,” he says, snatching the handles.

He walks with newfound purpose towards the exit; I quicken my pace to keep up. I sense that he has no plan to pay for the groceries and my heart thrums with queasy excitement. Maybe it’ll be a story I tell my kids when they’re older. You know, your old man isn’t so innocent. Or maybe not. Maybe I’ll keep it for myself.

I make a mistake, however, amateur that I am. I glance over at the cashier, framed by cigarettes, who is absentmindedly petting his damp mustache while he stares at his phone. He must see me staring in his periphery, because he looks up to meet my gaze. Then he sees the boy with my basket. He sees his intention.

“Hey, stop,” the clerk says. “Hey, stop,” he says again, finding his voice.

The missing boy drops the basket without breaking stride, his poofy hair bouncing in rhythm. “He tried to take me home,” he yells, pointing at me as he opens the door.

“Me? No.” I pick the basket up. It’s my stuff, anyways. I can pay for it. No problem.

“Drop that,” the clerk orders me. He circles around the check-out in a jerky, angry walk.

What am I doing? I think. I laugh through my teeth, because this is all a big misunderstanding. Everyone can see that. A goof. A prank on the clerk, and we totally got him.

“He just…” I gesture into the night, but the missing boy has already disappeared.

The clerk—who I now see is no more than nineteen—grabs the end of the basket and yanks. I don’t let go, because I still need to explain, need him here so I have someone to explain to.

“Give it up,” he growls. I can tell he’s been practicing that voice for a moment like this.

The muscles in my forearms tense as we wrestle for the basket. I lean my weight back, widen my stance, and feel an unfamiliar strength ripple through me. Delirious laughter gurgles up my throat, but I bite my lip to stop it. I keep holding on so I can remember what this feels like.