(Kaelen)
Bren is in the house.
I know before I open the door because I can hear him — not crying, which is somehow worse. Just very quiet, the specific silence of a child who's decided that making noise isn't safe. I've been that child. The recognition moves through me fast and goes somewhere cold.
The door isn't locked.
That's the first thing wrong with it. An unlocked door in an abandoned farmhouse where a seven-year-old has been taken is not a mistake. It's an invitation.
I push it open anyway.
Bren is sitting on the floor in the corner of the main room, arms around his knees, with a piece of rope around his wrists that's been tied loosely enough that he could probably work free if he tried long enough. He looks up when I come in and something in his face does what seven-year-old
