The man looked at Graham with twinkling eyes and said, “Granted, the boy’s the spittin’ image of Clayton.” He shook his head. “It’s downright spooky, really. But Mag, think about this a spell, would you? When was Clayton born?” “Christmas Eve, nineteen ninety-five. A minute before midnight.” Looking at Graham now, the man said, “Tell me, son, what year is it?” Graham glanced at Maggie and saw a funny glaze in her eyes. He said, “Two thousand and eight.” “See?” Albert said. “Clayton’d be twelve now. Not six. He was six when he was taken.”
