Thirty minutes before landing, Carmen and I gently wake Ben. He rubs his eyes, clutching the stuffed bear in his arms. “What happens now?” he asks quietly, his voice trembling.
I kneel beside him. “Ben, the police and some social workers will probably meet us when we land. They’ll want to make sure you’re safe. Then we’ll figure out how to reach your aunt.”
He looks like he’s about to cry again. “I’m scared,” he admits.
I press his hand in reassurance. “I know. But you’re not alone anymore, okay? We’re going to help you.”
He nods, trying to look brave, but I see how his hands shake. Carmen grabs an extra pair of wings—the little pin we give to kids sometimes—and fastens them on his shirt. “There,” she says gently. “Now you’re part of our flight crew.”
A timid smile lights up his face. “Thanks,” he whispers.
When we landed, the passengers began to disembark. It’s a typical flurry of suitcases, overhead bins popping open, people anxious to stretch their legs. Most have no idea what has transpired in the back of the plane. Carmen stays with Ben, who’s seated quietly, the paper bag in his lap. I help direct passengers off the aircraft, my eyes occasionally flicking back to see if he’s okay.
Finally, the cabin empties. Standing by the door is Officer Rodriquez, accompanied by a short woman in a blazer—likely a social worker named Ms. Delgado. Captain Baker motions for Ben to come forward.
“Hi, Ben,” Ms. Delgado says softly, bending down to his level. “My name is Carmen Delgado, I’m here to help you. We’re going to figure out how to contact your family.”
Ben’s lip quivers, but he nods. He glances at me, and I give him a thumbs-up. “You’re in good hands,” I tell him, even though I feel nervous for him.
Before he steps off, he runs back and gives me the biggest hug. “Thank you,” he whispers into my shirt. “And thanks for the crackers.”
My heart just about melts. I pat his back gently. “Anytime, buddy. You take care.”
Over the next week, I can’t stop thinking about Ben. I asked our airline supervisor if there’s any follow-up or any information about the case, but he says those records are usually private. Normally, that would be the end of my involvement. But something about Ben’s story stays with me, gnawing at my mind. I keep wondering: Did he ever find Aunt Margo? How’s his mother doing?
I decide to do a little searching on my own time, even though it’s a long shot. I hop online, searching for any local resources that might help me find “Margo Evers” or “Margo the painter” in Los Angeles. After a few tries, I come across a local gallery listing for an artist named Margaret Evers. The gallery features a few of her paintings—seascapes of an L.A. beach. My heart leaps.
I sent an email to the gallery’s general inbox, explaining, in the vaguest terms possible, that I might have information about a relative of Ms. Evers. I don’t want to reveal too much, but I do mention the boy’s name: Ben. I leave my contact info, hoping for the best.