I stepped out of the kitchen archway immediately, watching him kick his left sneaker off against the wooden baseboard.

“Noah, sweetheart, where is your custom guitar?” I asked directly, trying to keep the rising panic out of my voice.

The boy froze instantly with one shoe off and his right foot still firmly planted in his dirty sneaker.

His chin dropped toward his chest, and his eyes glued themselves to the braided rug beneath his feet.

“Noah, look at me right now,” I demanded, stepping closer until I could hear his shallow breathing.

He swallowed hard, his throat bobbing visibly before he dared to speak.