At Oakwood Elementary, the lunch bell rang, signaling the end of another midday break. I’m Rebecca Collins, a second-grade teacher, and on that day, something made my heart tighten. One student, Lily Parker, was missing again. This was the third time this week she hadn’t returned with the others. Her usual excuse about the library didn’t sit right with me. Something deep inside said: Go check.
Lily was a quiet, responsible child, but she had started exhibiting strange behaviors. Her lunches were untouched, her cheeks slightly pale, and she seemed distracted, almost as if carrying a secret. Concern gnawed at me. I assigned silent reading to the rest of the class and slipped out, scanning the playground.
Through the trees at the edge of the property, I caught sight of a flash of purple—Lily’s backpack—moving toward the small wooded area that students were strictly forbidden to enter. My instincts told me I couldn’t wait. I discreetly informed the secretary and slipped into the woods, keeping the girl in sight.
The trees gave way to a small clearing beside a creek. There, nestled against an embankment, was a makeshift shelter: tarps and an old tent formed a fragile home. A man sat on a milk crate, head in his hands, while a small boy of about four slept beside him, flushed and sweating. My heart sank.
“Daddy?” Lily whispered. “I brought lunch. Is Noah feeling any better?”
Continue reading on next page…