We knock on the door, once… twice… Nothing.
But there’s noise inside. Faint footsteps. The scratch of plastic against wood. Maybe the creak of a chair.
Caden doesn’t hesitate. He rattles the handle, then glances at me. “They’re in there.”
When the door doesn’t open, he simply grips the handle, gives it one sharp twist—crack—and pushes it open.
The stench hits me first. Sweat. Rot. Something sour like old milk. My stomach turns.
We step inside.
The kids are at the kitchen table, eating dry cereal straight from plastic bowls with their hands. There’s no milk. No cutlery. No adults.
But the moment they see us, their little faces light up like we’re their whole world.
“Baylee! Caden!” Megan squeals, launching herself out of her chair and running straight for him.
James isn’t far behin
