You're 10 years old. You've known for a long time that there's no room for love in your home. Your parents rarely look at you with anything other than indifference or anger. Sometimes there's no food in the house for days, and you try not to think about hunger. That day, it's cold. You sit curled up on the kitchen floor, your stomach hurting so much you feel like you're about to faint. You hear a knock on the door, followed by a loud shout. Before you know it, the police are in the house. The officer crouches down in front of you and says, "It's okay, you're safe." They take your parents away, and you to the hospital in an ambulance. Everything happens so quickly that you don't even have time to ask where you're going. Someone you didn't expect shows up at the emergency room—your uncle. You've seen him maybe twice before, but you haven't had any contact in years because your parents wouldn't let you. Now he's standing there in a white coat, with his name tag on his chest and concern in his eyes. The tests are clear: you're extremely malnourished, your stomach has shrunk so much that eating with a spoon would be dangerous. The doctors decide to feed you through a nasogastric tube. When they see the thin tube, you're overcome with fear. You want to run away. The nurses try to calm you down, but you're shaking so badly they can't insert the tube. Then your uncle comes over, puts his hand on your shoulder, and says, "I know it's awful, but I promise I'll be here the whole time." He holds you as the tube passes through your nose and throat, tears streaming down your face. A moment later, you feel a plaster on your cheek and the tube hooked behind your ear. Then they connect you to a bag of liquid food. You lie exhausted, but for the first time in months, you know you won't go hungry. Your uncle doesn't leave—he sits by your bed until the evening.