He pounded on the door, breathless, panic scraping at his throat. His son was lost—his whole world was somewhere out there—and this was the nearest house with a light on. When the door finally opened, his words died.

In your arms, his little boy slept. Clean. Safe. His tiny fingers curled against your shirt, his chest rising in the first peaceful rest he’d had since his mother passed. He looked nothing like the terrified, dirt-streaked child his father had been preparing himself to find.

A sharp, aching relief flooded him, burning behind his ribs.

“Thanks Lord… thank you,” he whispered, the words breaking as they left him.