Inside the clear plastic was a folded note and a small drawing. The handwriting was a child’s, careful and pressed hard into the paper. It read, “Please help. We are okay but we need someone to know.” The drawing showed a house, two small stick figures, and a third, larger figure with angry lines scribbled around it. My hands went cold. I unfolded the second layer and found more. Dates. Times. Little sentences describing things no child should have to describe.

Then I understood the trash bags. The cleanup was their cover, the one reason they were allowed outside alone every week. Someone in that house was watching them, and the only way they could reach the outside world was to hide messages under the bush of the neighbor who had once smiled and called them wonderful. I was that neighbor. And I had almost missed it.