Read Online Lost Boy by Tim Green - Free Book Online Page A

clothes. When he returned, everything seemed fine. Ashleigh Love fed Mr. Starr his last spoonful of oatmeal before packing up to go.
    Ashleigh zipped up her big duffel bag and turned to Ryder. “So, I’ll see you tomorrow?”
    Mr. Starr jumped in. “You never know with my sister, his mom. Very erratic. Always was. He may come and go a bit. One never knows.”
    â€œI didn’t know you even had a sister, Mr. Starr,” she said.
    â€œThere’ve been many times I haven’t known it myself, dear,” he said. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
    When the door closed they looked at each other.
    â€œNice girl,” Mr. Starr said.
    â€œYes.”
    â€œSo, you think you can do this?” Mr. Starr’s eyes bored right into Ryder’s core.
    Ryder nodded and knew Mr. Starr was talking about their plan.
    â€œTell me again,” Mr. Starr said.
    Ryder ticked on his fingers the steps they’d devised the night before. “I take the subway to Yankee Stadium. I ask a cop where the team bus comes in. I get as close as I can and I shout to Thomas Trent and if I get close, I ask if he remembers Ruby from Auburn. I show him the baseball and hand him the note and tell him I have to speak to him. It’s a matter of life and death.”
    â€œAnd that you think you’re his son. I want you to say that.”
    â€œReally?” Ryder stared at Mr. Starr. Telling Thomas Trent that Ryder was his son was something they’d debated long into the night last night. They’d come up with no answer until, apparently, now.
    â€œYes. I’ve been thinking about it.” Mr. Starr’s eyes seemed to flash. “You have to hit him right between the eyes. Get his attention. That will do it, trust me. If you can, say it so only he can hear, but either way, you’ve got to say it.”
    Ryder shrugged. “Okay. I guess I better get going. They get there two hours before the game, right?”
    â€œSometimes earlier, so don’t dawdle. You need to see him today.” Mr. Starr banged a crooked hand down on his armrest. “The visitors’ bus should pull up to the loading dock near the garage on 164th Street, but don’t take that as gospel. I just readit from some crazy fan’s online blog about how he gets MLB autographs. The guy might be a total loon for all I know. Ask someone who’s there, a cop or a stadium worker or someone. If anyone asks you why, you’re just hoping to get an autograph on your ball. No one will bother you that way. You got to wait there where the buses arrive, and just shout to him.”
    Ryder stared for a moment. “I just hand him the ball and say, ‘Mr. Trent, remember Auburn, New York? I’m your son. Ruby’s my mom’?”
    Mr. Starr blinked. “That’s it. That’ll get him and then you hand him the note I printed out last night. My email is on it and hopefully he’ll reach out.”
    Ryder patted his pants pocket. Mr. Starr had composed a note meant not to scare Thomas Trent off, but to draw him in.
    â€œDo you think it’ll work?” Ryder asked.
    â€œWe have to try. He’s right here, for God’s sake.” Mr. Starr pulled open a desk drawer and fished around awkwardly for a minute before producing a thin fold of money. “Use this for whatever you need.”
    â€œI can’t take your money. . . .”
    Mr. Starr shook his head. “I don’t need it. You might need it. What about the subway? So just take it.”
    Ryder reached out and took the money. He put a hand on Mr. Starr’s shoulder, trying not to recoil at the feel of his frozen frame beneath the white cotton dress shirt that was threadbare and stained around the wrists and collar.
    â€œOh, go already.” Mr. Starr sounded grumpy but his eyes weren’t. “And don’t forget the ball.”
    â€œThank you, Mr. Starr.” Ryder picked the ball up off thecouch