The morning was dusky, sunrise nearly an hour off, when Frank Burchall pulled out of his driveway on Bermuda’s east end, his granddaughter Mimi beside him, and headed for work in the languid seaside port of St. George’s. Burchall’s route took him along Barry Road, a single-lane coastal track that wends between pastel houses on one side and the cerulean Caribbean on the other. Daylight began to bleed into the dim world. And then, in his headlights, Burchall saw the wanderer.
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