Greyford noticed absence better than arrival.
Vince understood that as he drove the service road just after noon, the town thinning behind him in quiet increments. Houses gave way to sheds, sheds to fenced lots, the asphalt roughening in a way that felt intentional. This was not a road meant to welcome anyone. It existed so things could pass through without being remarked upon.
He had not been told to come here.
That was what made it matter.
The call had been brief. No name. No explanation. Just a location that hovered at the edge of town, neither inside nor out. Vince had written it down without asking who was speaking. The voice had sounded practiced at not being remembered.
The truck was already there.
It sat near the fence line, angled away from the road, paint dulled by years of dust rather than neglect. It did not look abandoned. That was the unsettling part. The tires were properly inflated. The plates were clean. Someone had made sure it stayed ordinary.
Vince parked several yards back and stepped out.
He waited.
Nothing moved at first. Wind stirred loose gravel. A chain rattled once, then settled. The truck did not announce itself. It did not need to.
"Don't."
The voice came from behind the truck. Calm. Not defensive. Just there.
Vince turned.
The boy stood in the narrow shade cast by the fence, hands loose at his sides. Taller than Vince expected. Lean, steady. He did not look startled to be seen.
"You Vince Stone," the boy said.
"Yes."
A pause. Then, "I'm Tommy."
No emphasis. No hesitation.
Vince did not reach for his notebook. He did not step closer.
"You weren't gone," Vince said.
Tommy shook his head once. "I stopped being asked about."
The words landed without drama. They did not need any.
"How long have you been here," Vince asked.
Tommy tilted his head slightly. "Depends who you ask."
That was not deflection. It was accuracy.
"You could have left," Vince said.
"I did," Tommy replied. "Sometimes."
"Not far."
"No."
The wind shifted. Dust traced a thin line across the lot and disappeared.
"They let you keep the truck," Vince said.
"They needed me to move," Tommy answered. "If I stayed still, someone would've had to explain why."
"And if you moved," Vince said, "no one needed to."
Tommy nodded. "That was the understanding."
"Whose," Vince asked.
Tommy's gaze slid toward the town beyond the fence. "People who thought keeping things quiet was the same as fixing them."
That was as close as he came.
"You're alive," Vince said.
"Yes."
"You weren't trapped."
"No."
"You weren't free."
Tommy exhaled slowly. "No."
Vince believed him.
"Your sister knows," Vince said.
Tommy nodded. "Enough."
"She's been careful," Vince said.
"She's been precise," Tommy corrected. "There's a difference."
A car passed on the road without slowing. Neither of them turned to watch it.
"Why now," Vince asked.
Tommy looked at the truck, then back at Vince. "Because something changed."
"What."
"Someone finally said no," Tommy said.
The refusal had traveled farther than Vince realized.
"They'll ask questions," Vince said. "Not the right ones."
"That's fine," Tommy replied. "Questions still leave marks."
Vince studied him. This was not someone asking to be recovered.
"Come with me," Vince said.
Tommy hesitated, then shook his head. "Not yet."
"Why."
"Because if I walk back with you," Tommy said, "they'll make it about you. I need it to stay about the time they didn't ask."
Vince nodded once.
"Soon," Tommy added. "Just not quietly."
He stepped back toward the fence, then paused.
"They'll tell you they were protecting me," Tommy said. "Some of them will believe that."
"And maybe they were," Vince said.
"A little," Tommy agreed. "That's what makes it hard."
Tommy disappeared along a path that did not look accidental.
Vince stood by the truck. He rested a hand briefly on the hood. Warm. Solid. Real.
This had never been about a missing boy.
It had been about a town that learned how not to look.
Vince turned back toward Greyford.
This time, he did not feel like someone returning.
He felt like someone who had been allowed to see.