When I pulled into the driveway, the front door was slightly ajar.

The house smelled stale.

The television was blasting from the living room.

Patricia and Courtney were asleep on the couch under heaps of blankets.

Dirty dishes were scattered across every surface.

A cold fear moved down my spine.

I hurried toward the bedroom.

Nothing could have prepared me for the sight inside.

Hannah was lying completely still on the bed.

Her skin had turned gray.

Her lips were dry and split.

She looked as if she had been left alone for weeks.

Beside her, Owen’s tiny face was flushed bright red with fever.

His diaper had not been changed.

His weak cries barely reached across the room.

“Hannah!”

Her eyes opened slowly.

She stared at me as though she could hardly believe I was really there.

“They took my phone,” she whispered.

Before I could answer, my mother appeared behind me.

“Oh please,” she scoffed. “Don’t encourage her theatrics.”