“We’re leaving. Right now,” I said, forcing a terrifyingly false calm into my voice. “Shoes on, Micah. No questions. You stick right by my leg.”
He scrambled to his feet, almost tripping over his own sneakers. “Is she just sleeping, Dad?”
I swallowed the lump of pure bile rising in my throat. “She’s sick, buddy. But we’re getting help.”
As I turned toward the door, my eyes caught the kitchen. It was a tableau of neglect that would burn itself into my retinas forever. An empty cereal box lay crushed on the counter. The sink was a mountain of foul-smelling dishes. The refrigerator door was slightly cracked; inside, there was only half a bottle of ketchup and a withered lemon. No milk. No bread. Nothing a six-year-old could reach or prepare. Beside the sink sat a small, plastic sippy cup with a dark, dried ring of juice crusted at the bottom.
