“We manage, sir,” he said. His voice was small but steady.
“And your parents?”
The quieter twin swallowed. “Dad died. Mom said she’d come back.” His voice faded. “She didn’t.”
The words hit harder than any financial loss Ethan had ever suffered.
“What are your names?” he asked.
“I’m Noah. He’s Caleb,” the protective one said. “I’m older by six minutes.”
Ethan almost smiled. “I’m Ethan,” he said. “And I think… maybe I was meant to meet you.”
A motorcycle sputtered up behind them. A weathered man in work boots climbed off and eyed Ethan’s car suspiciously.
“I’m Hank,” he said. “You bothering these boys?”
“No, sir,” Noah answered quickly.
Hank sighed. “They’ve been alone over a year. We neighbors help when we can, but it ain’t enough. They sleep on the floor. When it rains, the roof leaks.”
Ethan followed the boys inside.
The shack was worse up close. Dirt floor. No furniture except wooden crates. In the corner lay a moldy mattress.
“We sleep here,” Caleb said simply. “When it’s cold, we hold on tight.”
On a crate sat a shoebox tied with string.
“Our treasure,” Noah explained, opening it carefully.