“Okay… okay,” I muttered to myself, already moving before I fully understood why.
The clock glowed: 3:04 a.m.
Cold air rushed into the house the moment I opened the door.
And there he was.
Noah.
Five years old.
Standing barefoot on my porch in thin Spider-Man pajamas, trembling so violently it looked like his whole body couldn’t decide whether to run or collapse.
For a second, my brain refused to accept what I was seeing.
Because children didn’t show up at a door like this.
Not at 3 a.m.
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