Free Tom Finder by Martine Leavitt Page A

him. Jump, he said. The water’s fine. Jump. I would have, if I hadn’t remembered that I had to find my baby.”
    They had arrived at the shelter.
    The red-haired social worker opened the door. She touched Janice’s arm as she walked in. To Tom she said, “Coming in?”
    Tom shook his head.
    â€œTom, who are you?”
    â€œThat’s what I’m trying to find out,” Tom said, and he said good-bye.
    At the LRT station the wind blew over the platform. He sat heavily down on the bench and considered looking for Pam. He thought about her with Cupid and fought off an urge to break a window.
    Maybe he had enough to look for. Daniel. His parents. A job. He picked up an old newspaper that had blown into a corner and turned to the personals section to see if anyone was looking for a boy named Tom. He’d picked up the obituary page. There was a picture of a young man, maybe sixteen, who looked familiar. Tom grabbed the paper with both fists to read it. Sivorak, Peter.
    That name didn’t sound familiar. He looked at the picture again. He knew that face. Maybe he’d known him in school. Maybe he could find these Sivorak people, say sorry about your boy, and do you know who I am? He read on.
    Peter died after a long struggle with substance abuse. He is survived by his loving parents . . .
    Substance abuse. Tom looked at the picture again, and then he knew who it was.
    â€œPepsi,” he said aloud.
    The train pulled in, silent on the rails, but Tom didn’t pay attention. Gravity was trying to force him to put the paper down, but Tom wouldn’t. He kept reading: Peter was an avid Scouter as a youngster, and loved hockey . . .
    The train whispered to him as it pulled out. Tom looked up. He looked up just in time to see a warrior leaving the train platform. He was tall, wide-shouldered, and lean as a lost dog. His hair was long but not braided.
    â€œHey!” Tom shouted.
    â€œHey!” the station echoed back.
    Hey, hey, hey . . .
    Except it wasn’t his own echo, it was Train Cop yelling. He was walking toward Tom, yelling something about not being on the platform without a ticket and something about a seven-hundred-dollar fine, something about lazy, smelly, snotty kids. Tom ran, still clutching the obituary column.
    The tall boy had disappeared. Tom kept running. Finally, he stopped under a streetlight and read the obituary again. Could you get so invisible you disappeared from life? Stay away from Forget, Pepsi had warned him. Once you forget, you’re already dead.
    Tom walked until he was across from police headquarters. This could all be over so quick. Stupid to save for a billboard. Zoid, when you could just walk into a police station.
    Gravity.
    Needing-Gravol-type gravity.
    Tom took a deep breath. He could do it. Anyone who could fight and write and swim could walk into a police station. Maybe his dad was a cop. Maybe his mom was a cop. That’d be just like her, to go and do something risky like that.
    He walked in, clutching the obituary, his skin crawling, but it was all right, all right, because no one looked at him.
    He stood a long time at the desk, holding onto it for fear he was going to fall. He gasped, startled, when an officer finally noticed him.
    â€œWhat can I do for you?” the officer said without coming close to the desk. He put his hand on his hip, which was hung with a holster.
    â€œIs anyone looking for me?” Tom asked. He was breathing hard, like he’d just run a long way, and the knuckles on his hand were white where he gripped the counter top. “Maybe someone rich?”
    â€œWhy? Are you lost?”
    â€œI was just wondering if anyone called in looking for me.”
    â€œWhat’s your name?”
    â€œTom.”
    â€œTom what?”
    â€œI don’t know.”
    The officer studied him a minute, his fingers hooked on his gun belt. He went to a file on a desk. “I went through missing persons just