One afternoon when my kid Sam was seven, he walked in from the front yard with another boy about his age, maybe a year or two older. This other kid was skinny, with dark hair and eyes, in a plain blue t-shirt, jeans and ratty sneakers.

I said, Who’s this?

I’m Nila, the boy said. 

I said, You live nearby?

The boy shrugged.

You don’t know where you live?

The boy shrugged again. 

I looked at Nila and Sam and they looked at me.

I said, Do you want something to eat?

Nila and Sam nodded. I gave them cookies and milk and they ate silently, contentedly. When they finished Nila brought his plate and cup to the sink, and to my astonishment Sam did the same. We’d been trying to get him to do that for months.

Sam said, Can we go outside?

Sure, I said. Just stay in the yard.

My wife got home from running errands.

She said, Who’s the kid? 

Beats me, I said. 

When it got chilly out the boys came inside. Sam had one of those new Atari consoles and they played video games in the living room, exchanging soft words of frustration or encouragement. Listening to them, I was struck by a powerful feeling: for once, finally, everything was as it should be. 

I brought them a bowl of potato chips. 

Nila, I said. What’s the phone number for your house. I want to let your parents know you’re here.

I don’t have a phone, Nila said.

Where do you live?

Nowhere, he said, his eyes on the TV screen.

I felt a pang. You don’t have a home? 

Not really, he said. Can I stay here?

Marie was looking at me from the kitchen. I knew we were thinking the same thing: Of course he can. 

+

These days it’s easy enough to search for missing child or whatever on the internet. When Nila showed up the quickest way was the telephone. That evening while Marie gave the boys supper, I called the neighbors. Nobody had heard of any Nila. I called the police station. The cop who answered said there’d been no reports of missing kids, but he’d check again in the morning.

I said, What should I do with him until then?

You could call the county, get him in foster care.

The thought of giving up Nila made me feel sick to my stomach. As sick as if I had to give up Sam. Marie made up a bed for Nila in the spare room. 

+

Nobody came for him. Nobody called, there were no missing persons reports matching his description. I even checked the milk cartons at the grocery store. Nothing.

We couldn’t leave him in the house all day, so we put him in school. Our best guess was that he was a grade ahead of Sam.

Of course people asked questions, at neighborhood barbecues, or when we ran into another family at the mall. We gave vague answers to insinuate it was none of their business. Regardless, he was accepted quickly. More than that: he brought out the best in everyone around him. Sam’s behavior improved. Marie and I fought less. He fit right in with the kids in our cul-de-sac, and his teachers said they wished they had a whole classroom of Nilas.

Marie and I had never gotten around to having a second child, which I’d regretted. On the other hand, I had wondered if I could love another child as much as Sam. Apparently the answer was yes. Apparently parental love was a limitless resource: it expanded to encompass them both. I didn’t even have a favorite. Lots of parents do, it’s only natural, but I loved them equally. It was wonderful. It was the best time of my life.

Which is not to say it was perfect. Marie and I both felt guilty: somebody somewhere missed this kid. We soothed our consciences by reminding ourselves of all we’d done to look for his people. 

There was one strange thing. I mean, the whole situation was strange, but this added to it: Nila never seemed to want anything. Although Sam behaved better with Nila around, he still wanted things—new toys or games, some crappy sugar cereal for breakfast.

Not Nila. Sometimes I wished he would ask for things, whine a little. He never did, and he took everything we gave him with equanimity. It was strange, and yet we accepted it, just as we accepted Sam’s normal, childish whims. 

Also: Sam needed new clothes every few months. Nila never did. 

+

About a year after Nila came into our home, our lives, Marie called me at work, her voice frantic: he had disappeared. The boys had gotten off the school bus together, and suddenly Sam noticed Nila wasn’t with him. 

I did the same things I’d done before: I called the neighbors and the police. As the days turned into a week, we put up flyers around the neighborhood. After a month, I was again searching the milk cartons in the grocery store for Nila’s face.

Nothing.

For a year we were anxious, sleepless. And then we were just sad, and as Sam grew up, he became distant. My marriage became muted. Not fractious, but not joyful or affectionate either.

A couple of years after Sam finished college, Marie died. The last thing tethering Sam to me had fallen away, and he drifted off for good. 

By now the internet was ubiquitous, and once in a while I’d search online for Nila, for a young man with his name that resembled him. I lurked in the missing children forums of social media. All I found was heartache.

I retired. I traveled, largely because I had nothing better to do. On a hot afternoon, I was crossing a square toward a juice vendor when I noticed a slight, dark-haired boy, eight or nine years old, holding the hand of a young woman. Her other hand pushed a baby carriage. 

The boy and I locked eyes and I cried out with joy. But then I felt cold from head to foot. Because the recognition on his face was followed by fear. He tugged at the woman’s hand, desperately trying to pull her away from me.

The woman bent before the boy and put one gentle hand on his arm.

I knew enough of the language to understand her. 

She said, What’s wrong, Nila? 

I had presence of mind enough to know that if I approached them it would end badly. I would only succeed in terrifying the woman and maybe getting myself arrested. Because Nila hadn’t wanted me to find him. 

I walked in the other direction, an aging man weeping openly. The most frightening thought of all: how long had he been doing this?

+

Near the end of her life, Marie asked me what I thought Nila was. She didn’t say who, she said what. He never grew, she said. There must have been magic involved, she said, even though she’d never professed a belief in anything supernatural. She said, Sometimes I wonder if it was a delusion. But his teachers saw him. The neighbors saw him.

I don’t know what he was, I said. All I know is I loved him.

+++

Gordon Haber is a writer and editor. His nonfiction on religion and culture has appeared in The Forward, Religion Dispatches, Religion & Politics, and Salon. His recent short fiction has been in Bodega and The Short Story Project. Gordon’s awards include a Fulbright Fellowship to Poland, a MacDowell residency, and a residency at the Toji Cultural Center in South Korea. He does not live in Brooklyn.