In the foyer, a small child’s jacket lay dropped on the floor, where it had clearly been for some time.

In the kitchen, a bowl sat in the sink, a hard crust of dried oatmeal caked to the bottom.

And when I opened the refrigerator, my stomach turned over, because there was almost nothing inside it: a jar of mustard, half a lemon, a single bottle of water.

Nothing a child could eat.

Nothing that suggested an adult had shopped, or cooked, or cared for anyone in this house in days.

I stood there in front of that nearly empty refrigerator, and a cold dread began to climb up through me, and then, from upstairs, I heard footsteps.