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My name was written across the front in handwriting I would recognize anywhere—scrawled, hurried, and full of tension, just the way Megan used to write when she was upset or in a rush.
The Hospital Called—A Little Boy Listed Me as His Emergency Contact. I Laughed: “Impossible, I’m 32, Single, and Don’t Have a Son.”
“Only you,” he whispered, holding it out to me. “She said only you can open it.”
