The officers drove us to the downtown police station. Inside the lobby, at least twenty officers were waiting, some in uniform, some in street clothes. Then the crowd parted, and Nora rolled toward us in her new wheelchair, grinning from ear to ear. Behind her walked a tall man with a cane and a sergeant’s badge clipped to his belt.

“Simon,” he said, his voice thick, “I’m Sergeant Dean Becker. Nora’s dad.” He leaned his cane against the wall and reached behind the front desk. When he straightened up, he was holding a battered black guitar case. My son’s knees nearly buckled. I recognized the sticker on the corner instantly. It was the one Simon had put there the morning he turned eleven.