Wearing My Jacket

Last winter, I worked nights at a small-town gas station off Route 9 in Ohio.

Around 2 a.m., a man kept coming in to buy coffee. He never spoke. He always stood

too close. I told myself he was just lonely. Tonight, the radio crackled

with an Amber Alert. Same height. Same jacket. Last seen walking near this station.

I laughed it off—until the bell rang again. The door opened. The man stepped inside,

smiling. He was wearing my jacket.