The last thing my husband said before he locked us inside sounded so ordinary it didn’t raise a single alarm. “You and Noah will be fine for three days,” he said lightly, like he was heading out on a routine trip.

“We’re going to the hospital,” she said, voice shaking. Then she looked at me, something urgent and heavy in her eyes.

“Hannah… there’s something you need to know about your husband.”

And in that moment, I realized the nightmare wasn’t over.

It had only just begun.

Margaret didn’t explain anything on the drive.

She gripped the steering wheel so tightly her knuckles turned white, her jaw locked as if holding back words that were too heavy to say out loud. I sat in the passenger seat with Noah in my arms, his small body burning against mine, his breaths shallow and uneven.

“Stay with me, baby,” I whispered over and over, even as my own voice trembled.

At the hospital, everything moved fast.

Too fast.

Nurses took him from my arms the second we stepped through the doors. Questions flew at me—how long had he been without water, without food, when did the fever start—but the answers felt tangled in my throat.

“Forty-eight hours,” I finally managed. “Locked in… no food… barely any water…”

The look that passed between them told me enough.

I sat in the waiting room afterward, my hands still streaked with dried blood and dust, my body shaking now that I didn’t have to hold it together for Noah.