No missed calls, no texts. My heart hammered against my ribs as I stumbled out of bed, threw on a pair of sweatpants, and crept to the front door. I peered through the peephole. Two small, shivering figures stood on my porch, illuminated by the dim glow of the streetlamp.

My heart stopped. Jake and Tommy. My nephews, eight and six years old, standing in their thin cotton pajamas in the freezing November air.

I yanked the door open. “Uncle Mark,” Jake’s voice was a ragged, shaking whisper. His lips were tinged with blue. “Mom and Dad locked us out again.”