Ethan swallowed and glanced toward the dirt road outside. It stretched empty in both directions. No car. No footprints. No sign of anyone who could have brought them there.
He called the local sheriff’s office, then child services in the nearest town. They asked him to send photos, to stay where he was, to be patient. A storm the night before had damaged the roads, and they couldn’t send anyone until Monday morning.
“Don’t leave them alone,” they told him.
So he didn’t.
He had no idea how to care for children. He didn’t own kids’ clothes, toys, or even the right words to comfort them. Still, he opened his home.
He bathed them carefully, using the mildest soap he could find, dressed them in oversized T-shirts that fell to their knees, and cooked scrambled eggs with toast and mashed banana. Lily smiled brightly with her first bite, her entire face lighting up. Emma ate more slowly, watching him with cautious eyes, as if deciding whether he was safe.
That night, as he laid out blankets in the guest room, Lily pointed at a framed photo on the nightstand—Ethan and Claire, smiling, arms wrapped around each other in that very house.
Her eyes widened.