My flashlight found Lizzy curled on the floor beneath a hanging coat.
She was clutching her stuffed bear against her chest.
An empty bottle lay beside her.
Her hair was tangled, her lips looked dry, and her face had the exhausted stillness of a child who had cried until she had nothing left.
“Auntie,” she whispered. “You came.”
I dropped to my knees.
The anger that had carried me into the house disappeared beneath something colder and more useful.
Lizzy needed warmth.
She needed water.
She needed a doctor.
Everything else could wait.
I lifted her carefully.
She felt far too light for a six-year-old.
Her arms tightened around my neck, but even that small movement seemed to exhaust her.
“How long were you in here?” I asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Where are Grandma and Grandpa?”
“They went out.”
“Did they give you anything to eat?”
She pressed her face against my shoulder.
