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.

Her foster parents, Jim and Megan, were the kind of people you thank God for. Stable. Kind. Protective. They’d taken Isla in when she was found alone at a bus station, clinging to Moose, after running away from an unknown “uncle.” That was two years ago.