“Isla, would you be willing to speak today? Only if you’re comfortable, sweetheart.”

Isla looked up, eyes darting between the judge, her foster mom, and me. Her small fingers reached down and brushed Moose’s thick, chocolate-colored fur. The dog gave a gentle wag.

And then, Isla nodded.

The courtroom held its breath.

The bailiff brought over a cushioned chair and a small step stool. Isla climbed up, Moose following. He laid beside her, head resting on her shoe.

“Do you know why we’re here today?” the judge asked gently.

Isla whispered, “Because someone wants me to live somewhere I don’t want to live.”

I clenched my fists under the table. It was more than “someone.” It was the man who claimed to be her father—the man whose past we couldn’t fully pin down but whose name made Isla flinch in her sleep.