It was 9:30 p.m. I was getting my youngest tucked in when dispatch rang: a silent 911 call, traced to a modest home nearby. A child had dialed—but didn’t speak.
I knocked. The door creaked open, revealing a barefoot boy in pajama shorts clutching a phone like a lifeline. His eyes were anxious, his stance determined.
Only his younger sister was home, asleep in the back room. No food on the counters. The fridge held ketchup packets and a half-empty milk jug. The place was neat but hollow.
I crouched and asked if we could take a photo together—not for evidence, just memory. He gave a shy smile, the first spark of joy I’d seen.