By early afternoon, the house had become an oven. The Texas heat pressed down like a weight. Without air conditioning, without water, the air inside grew thick and suffocating.
Noah lay on the couch, flushed and weak. Emily tried to cool him with the last drops of water, her hands trembling.
She searched everywhere again.
Nothing.
By late afternoon, it got worse.
Noah’s body burned with fever. His breathing became uneven. His small hands clung weakly to her shirt.
Emily felt something break inside her.
She didn’t care about pride anymore. About neighbors. About appearances.
She picked up the mortar again and slammed it against the metal bars.
Over and over.
“Help! Please! My baby is dying! Help us!”
Her voice cracked. Her throat burned.
No one came.
The world outside continued as if nothing was wrong.
Until suddenly—
A car screeched to a stop outside.
Emily dragged herself to the window.
And froze.
It wasn’t the police.
It wasn’t help.
It was Margaret Carter—her mother-in-law.
And she was holding a sledgehammer.
For a split second, Emily thought the worst—that Margaret was part of this.
But then their eyes met.
Margaret saw the blood. The broken glass. The unconscious child.
And her face changed.
Not anger.