The boy on the left tightened his grip on his brother’s hand and nodded. The other lowered his gaze shyly.
“We manage, sir,” said the first boy. “I’m Ethan. This is Eli.”
“Are you here alone?” Daniel pressed gently.
“Our dad died,” Eli whispered. “Mom said she’d come back… but she didn’t.”
The words hit like a blow.
A motorcycle sputtered up behind them. A weathered man removed his helmet. “Everything okay here?” he asked cautiously. His name was Michael Harris, a nearby farmhand who kept an eye on the boys.
Daniel introduced himself. After a moment, Michael pulled him aside.
“They’ve been alone over a year,” Michael explained quietly. “Neighbors help when we can. But it’s not enough. They sleep on the dirt floor. Winters are bad.”
Daniel asked to see inside.
The shack was worse than he imagined—bare earth flooring, wooden crates for furniture, and a rotting mattress in the corner.
“When it’s cold, we hold each other,” Eli said simply. “Then it’s not so bad.”
On a crate sat a small shoebox tied with string.
“Our treasure,” Ethan said, opening it carefully.
Inside were colored stones, a broken toy truck, and a faded photo of a smiling young woman holding two babies.