It was a strange number from Huntington Park, but I always answer odd numbers because it could be my son calling. He is 33, unhoused in Los Angeles, mentally ill and treatment-resistant. It’s just something my family lives with, though we never imagined this would be our lives.
When I answered, I heard crying and sobbing, “Mom, Momma, please come get me. Mom, please. Please, Momma.”
I shouted his name, but a different voice answered: “We have your son. He’s been in an accident. He has no phone or ID. I know you want him returned to the safety of your home.”
