During the next few weeks, I learned many things.

I learned from Henry Lenders that the man with my son had been identified as Angus Flinch. Jason and his captor had flown into New York and taken the train to Chicago. After that, the trail went cold. My case was being passed on to the States, but it would take more time, more paperwork. “Don’t do anything stupid, mate,” Henry said again. I didn’t even bother to lie this time.

I learned from an overpriced public records search that there wasn’t any Angus Flinch in Minnesota. Fake name, then. Fine.

I learned the layout of all the schools—U of M, MSU, a blur of junior colleges—as I walked about putting up flyers.

I learned that Naomi had just moved to Minneapolis after a year in London, that she could beat me at pool, that she was a professional blogger, that there was such a thing as professionally blogging.

I learned that I hated American football, that I liked Leinenkugel’s beer and deep-fried cheese curds.

And I learned to wait, and hope, and plan.