That belief drove Wyatt’s obsession to find Danny. He pleaded for the help of hotel and tour managers, town officials, and local media. Over the years, he reached out around the world, painstakingly attempting to contact every person who was in Banff, Alberta, at the time of the tragedy. He established a website and used social media. He located tourists, sending pictures taken of Danny, three years old at the time, requesting they search their photos, videos, and memories for any trace of a little boy fitting Danny’s description.

Wyatt continued playing and replaying the video of a man and woman in their 60s who were embracing a younger man and woman on Banff Avenue, the town’s main street. The mountains ascended at the end of the busy, crowded business strip. People streamed through the frame behind them, in what was a carnival-like atmosphere. In a heartbeat, an adult passed by, carrying a boy who was wearing a white ball cap.

Again, Wyatt froze the frame to examine the fuzzy, indistinct features of the boy’s face. The tourists from Naples who’d given Wyatt their video had said it was taken within 24 hours of the fire.

The flow of people in the background was blurred in shadow and a diffusion of light fingering through the clouds, making it difficult for Wyatt to pick out the adult or adults accompanying the boy.

Is this Danny? Or do I want him to be Danny, because I cannot forgive myself for what happened and accept that he’s dead?

Wyatt glanced at the faces of his wife, Lisa, and Danny, smiling from the framed photograph next to his computer. Then he reached for the small, bronzed cast-iron moose, which stood on a marble base. Wyatt had used a knife to scratch the words Danny Wyatt, Banff, Canada on its underside. Danny treasured the souvenir. The moose was blackened, and one of its antlers had broken off, but—made of cast iron—it had survived the fire.

A soft, mournful whimper broke the silence as Molly, Wyatt’s black lab, placed her head on his lap. He stroked her ears the way she liked.

“Message received. Want a treat?”

Molly answered with a happy bark.

“Hold on.”

Wyatt first checked his emails for anything new on Danny, or his job search. Zip. He left his desk, went to the kitchen pantry, and got Molly a high-protein biscuit. While she crunched away, he shuffled through the mail he’d tossed on the table that morning. Some forms he needed to complete, and more bills.

He picked up his phone and scrolled to his last email from his friend Tony DeCastilla, the retired NYPD detective, now a private investigator.

“My offer still stands, Ray. Anytime you want to talk.”