Walter began walking him part of the way home. Eli always insisted he could manage the rest.
One evening, Eli did not arrive.
The clock ticked past the usual hour. Then another. The clubhouse grew tense in a way no one wanted to name.
When the door finally opened, Eli stumbled inside.
His jacket was gone. His lip was bleeding. His breathing came in short, broken gasps.
“He found it,” Eli whispered. “The lock. I bought it like I said. He took it. Took the money too. Said locks are for people who earn them.”
The room went silent.
Walter closed his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them, grief and fury lived side by side.
“You are not going back alone,” he said quietly.
Engines roared through quiet streets that night, not as a threat but as a declaration that someone had finally seen.
The police followed. Doors were opened. Truths spilled out that could no longer be ignored.
They found more than neglect. They found fear structured into routine. They found children who had learned that silence was survival.