My six-year-old nephew dragged his broken leg across seven blocks of pavement to reach my porch, with his starving three-year-old sister clinging to his shirt.

By noon, children’s services had opened an emergency case, and two Columbus detectives were taking photographs of bruises on Drew’s arms and the pressure sores on Lily’s feet. Peter gave them everything he had: dates, missed visits, excuses, the years Reena had kept finding reasons the children could not see him.

Reena arrived at the hospital in beige slacks and a wrinkle-free blouse, as if she had come from an office instead of a house with a locked basement. Her first glance went to Peter. Her second went to the police officer outside Drew’s room.

Her third went through the waiting-room window toward Peter’s porch across the parking-lot image in his mind.

“Do you have one of those camera doorbells?” she asked him, too quickly.

Peter stared at her. She had not yet asked how either child was doing.

“You locked them in a basement,” he said.

“Drew lies when he wants attention.” She folded her arms tighter. “He fell in the yard two days ago. Lily refuses food all the time. You know how kids are.”

Peter actually laughed once, a short disbelieving sound. “No. I know how you are.”

A caseworker named Marisol stepped between them and told Reena she could not see the children yet. Reena’s face changed then—not grief, not panic, but insult.

Peter thought of Aaron’s funeral three years earlier, of Reena crying into folded tissues while telling everyone she only wanted stability for the kids. He had believed her enough to back off when she said the children needed quiet.

Now Marisol sat beside him with a clipboard. “If we place Drew and Lily with kin tonight,” she said, “can you take them?”

Peter looked through the glass at Drew’s casted leg and Lily asleep with one fist still curled as if protecting food.

“Yes,” he said.