“Don’t wake her,” my wife snapped when I returned. Koda slipped past, whining at the utility closet. I forced it open—my five-year-old lay starving on a mat. A ledger read: “Grant says keep her inside.”

I came back to Cedar Ridge after fourteen months overseas convinced the hardest part would be relearning normal life—sleeping without distant explosions, remembering where I kept the dishes.
My duffel still reeked of dust and jet fuel. The second I crossed the threshold, Koda’s claws skidded across the hardwood. He barreled into me, tail whipping, shoving his head into my chest like he needed to make sure I was real.

Rachel stepped into the hallway wearing a robe and a smile that didn’t quite fit. She raised her hands sharply.
“Don’t wake her,” she whispered. “She finally fell asleep.”

Something in her tone made my stomach tighten.
“Where is she?” I asked.

Rachel looked away. “Sleeping. She’s been… hard lately.”

Koda froze. His tail stopped mid-wag. His ears tilted forward, and then he slipped past Rachel, body low, moving with intent toward the back of the house. A soft whine crept out of his throat.

“Koda,” Rachel snapped.

He ignored her and stopped at the utility closet, pressing his nose against the door. The whine turned frantic—short, desperate sounds that raised the hair on my arms.

“Why is he doing that?” I asked.

Rachel stepped in front of me, blocking my path. “It’s nothing. He’s been acting strange since you left.”

I didn’t argue. I reached past her and touched the doorknob.

It was warm.

Rachel grabbed my arm. “Evan—don’t.”

That was enough.

I kicked the door. The cheap latch snapped, and the door swung open. The smell hit first—stale sweat, damp fabric, old food. Koda rushed inside and curled around a small body on the floor.

Lily lay on a filthy gym mat, pajamas hanging off her fragile frame. Her ribs showed. Her hair clung to her forehead. Her eyes fluttered open like it took effort to lift the lids.

“Daddy?” she whispered.