It was just after dinner on a Tuesday evening, around 7:15 pm, when my phone buzzed with an unfamiliar number.
I hesitated, but something urged me to answer.
The voice on the other end was hurried, almost frantic, telling me my ten-year-old son was crying behind the hedge in our neighbor’s yard.
My heart jumped into my throat, and I was out the door in seconds.
I drove through our suburban streets, my mind racing with possibilities.
My son, normally so full of energy and joy, had been acting differently lately.
I tried to shake off the worry, but the unease lingered.
I pulled up to my best friend’s house—just two doors down—and what I found stopped me cold.
My son, huddled and shaking, his eyes wide with fear.
I felt a chill run down my spine.
