Library.
Three stories.
As a temporary shelter, the aid process here was similar to that on the supermarket side.
Flynn Taylor didn't find any sign of Alan at either the missing persons office or the casualty office.
A staff member suggested, "Sir, if you're just looking for your son, I suggest you go to the second floor. There's a childcare room where quite a few unclaimed children are staying, and many parents have found their children there."
Flynn Taylor hurriedly said 'thank you'.
Second floor.
Children's cries filled the air everywhere.
A woman with black hair and black eyes clung tightly to a little boy with black hair, saying, "Alan, Alan, you're my Alan. You are my Alan."
An elderly woman in black sat beside her, looking at the woman with pity and said, "Monica, he is not our Alan, our Alan had a car accident three months ago."
"No, mother. He is my Alan. He has black hair, he has black eyes. Just like my Alan."
"Monica!"
