Lila pointed with trembling fingers. “She’s inside… she won’t move.”

Ryan stepped in carefully. The air was stale. The living room was cluttered—stacks of unopened mail, empty food containers, and the soft buzz of an unwatched TV.

“Mommy?” Lila’s voice was small as she followed him into a dim bedroom.

On the bed lay a young woman—still, pale, but breathing. Barely.

Ryan rushed to her side, checking for a pulse.

Weak. Her forehead was burning hot. His training told him the truth: severe exhaustion, dehydration, and likely something worse.