Then came the system.
“We need to place you in emergency foster care,” a social worker said.
“With Lily?” Eli asked.
“She has to stay.”
“No.”
He ran. Barefoot down halls. Into Lily’s room. He climbed onto the bed and wrapped himself around her.
Staff hesitated.
Cole didn’t. “Let him stay. He’s been her parent longer than anyone here.”
Rules bent.
Blankets came. Lights dimmed.
Eli stayed awake, guarding the door.
Three days later, they were placed with Hannah Brooks, a foster mother known for healing what others couldn’t. Her house smelled of cinnamon and soap. Stars were painted on the ceiling.
“This is your room,” she said. “Two beds. Close together.”
Eli checked locks. Closets. Corners.
“She can’t get in,” Hannah said.
“She always does,” he replied.
For a week, he slept on the floor. On the fifth night, Hannah sat outside with cocoa.
“I know what hurting houses sound like,” she said. “Nothing bad comes in here. I watch the door.”
“Promise?” he whispered.
She crossed her heart.
That night, he slept.
Months passed. Healing came slowly. Laughter returned. But Diane Whitlock fought back—appeals, interviews, accusations. One child recanted under pressure.
Custody review was announced.