It was a little boy. His face was disfigured and his body was discolored. The found him in the river, drifting along lifeless. Defense markings ran up and down his little arms and legs.He was a fighter, he fought. But his killer overpowered him. Poor little guy didn't stand a chance. He lost the fight even before it began. And now he was dead. Gone forever. It was such a tragedy. He didn't deserve to die so young, it wasn't fair. At one point he had been a healthy, vibrant little boy.

But something happened along the way. He fell into the wrong hands, he meet trouble. And trouble had a face of evil. But they never knew what it looked like because it never revealed itself. No trace, no evidence, nothing. All was left was the body. And the body told a story in itself. It revealed what really happened, and in the end it revealed his identity.


His name was Johnathan, Johnathan Foster. He was only six years old when he died. His parents Martha and Stephen Foster were divorced. He was their only child. They never gave up hope, not once. Their son was their life, their whole world centered around him. How could they accept his death. It wasn't possible, he couldn't be dead. His parents were in a state of disbelief. And they stayed that way, until Mrs. Foster, received the news. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Foster, but. . . ." The detective didn't even have to finish. She knew, she knew by the solemn look on his face. Johnathan was dead.


That same night, Mr. and Mrs. Foster, reported to the hospital to identify the body. The mother walked into the room, her head held low. The father followed behind her, his new girlfriend at his side. The detective stood along the wall with the others. The room was silent. Mrs. Foster, walked over to the long, medal table, positioned in the center of the room. On top lay a little body, unmoving, with a small, white cloth spread over it. Just as, Mrs. Foster, was about to reveal the gruesome sight to them all, her ex-husband cried out: "Wait!" Everyone in the room froze, including, Mrs. Foster, her right hand suspended in mid air.


Mr. Foster, turned to his side, and whispered something into his girlfriend's ear. She nodded her head in understanding, "Okay."


"What's going on, Stephen?"


Mr. Foster took his girlfriend by the arm, "She's leaving."



"Right now?"


"Yes, right now. This shall only take a minute, excuse us."


Mrs. Foster watched as they excited through the door and disappeared around the corner. She prayed that he would return, she prayed he would not desert her again. One rejection was enough, she couldn't handle another. Especially now. The clock struck 1:00, and it became apparent to everyone that he wasn't coming back. It was time to move on, with or without him. Mrs. Foster knew this, but like everything else, she refused to accept it.


The detective walked over to where she sat in the corner, crying hysterically. He placed a hand on her shoulder, and squeezed gently. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Foster, but. . .we must move on. Doctors orders." She nodded her head, but made no move to get up. Her eyes were raw from crying, and her chest refused to stop aching. She was heartbroken, couldn't he see that?


"Uh, Mrs. Foster?"


Apparently not! "Can you people just give me a minute?" She wailed.



The detective backed off, his hands raised up in the air. "We're just trying to do our jobs, madam." Mrs. Foster felt bad. She didn't mean to snap at him like that, he didn't do a thing to her.


"I'm sorry," she apologized, after some time. "It's just-"


"We understand," the doctor spoke up, "given the situation and all."


Mrs. Foster nodded her head. "Yes, it's been quite stressful, but. . .I'm ready now. I want to identity my son."
************************************************************************************************************************************************
STEPHEN 30 MINUTES EARLIER


". . .the way I see it, you have two options. You either go back inside that building or you can leave right now and regret this for the rest of your life. Your choice."


Stephen sat back in the driver's seat of his car, arms crossed, staring at the steering wheel. "I-I don't know, Lisa. Either way some one's going to get hurt."



Lisa thought about that for a second. Stephen was right, he was in a lose-lose situation. "I tell you what, Stephen, if you run away from this everyone loses. Including you."


"But-"


"But nothing!" Lisa interrupted. "That is your son inside there, your own flesh and blood."


"Don't you think I know that! Stephen cried, trying to keep his emotions in check. "Jesus, Lisa, can't you just tell me what to do?"


Lisa shook her head. "No, not this time, Stephen. You have to listen to your own heart. What is it telling you. . .listen." Stephen opened his mouth to reply, but the sound of Lisa's cell phone interrupted him. She took one look at the screen, and just by the sour expression on her face, he already knew who it was.


Stephen turned away, blinking back tears. "Go ahead, answer it."


"I'm sorry."


"Don't be."


Lisa flipped open her phone, "Hello?"