When Peter slid an arm under him, the boy bit his own lip so hard a bead of blood appeared.
He did not scream.
That silence was worse than any scream Peter could have imagined.
Inside the house, Peter laid Drew on the couch and tucked pillows around his leg as best he could.
He set Lily beside him and wrapped both children in blankets even though the living room was warm.
Lily saw the crackers on the coffee table and reached for them with both hands.
She ate too fast, crumbs sticking to her lips, her tiny body leaning forward as if food might vanish if she slowed down.
Drew lifted one trembling hand and patted her back.
“Slow, Lily,” he murmured. “Slow.”
Peter stood there with his phone in his hand, watching a six-year-old comfort a starving toddler.
A child should learn songs before survival.
A child should know bedtime stories before he knows how to ration crackers.
Peter unlocked his phone.
“I’m calling for help.”
Drew’s eyes widened.
“She’ll be mad.”
Peter knelt in front of him.
The words came out low and firm, because if they came out any other way, they would break.
“She is not touching you again.”
