The man who got out of that truck was dressed like a respectable suburban father, clean-shaven, polo shirt, the kind of guy who coaches Little League and goes to church – but the boy’s terror told a different story.

“Where is he?” the man demanded, approaching me with the confidence of someone who’d never been told no. “Where’s my son?”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said, continuing to pump gas while the boy crouched behind my bike, trying to become invisible.

“I saw him run over here. That’s my boy, Tyler. He’s confused, has mental problems. Makes up stories.” The man’s smile was practiced, charming. “I’m sure he’s bothering you. Tyler! Come out right now!”