Behind the barn, next to the reeking pig enclosure, lay his 14-year-old daughter curled weakly atop a mound of straw. Her clothing hung in tatters, her hair was knotted and dirty, and her skin was streaked with mud and sweat. The pigs nudged around her, as if they were more familiar with her presence than the people in the house.

Michael froze then bolted forward.

“LILY!” he cried, kneeling and scooping her up. Her body was sh0ckingly light. Her lips were cracked. Her hands were raw and bleeding. When she tried to speak, nothing but a small whimper escaped.