Inside were three children. The oldest—a boy who couldn’t have been more than eight—stood protectively in front of two younger siblings. The little girl was maybe four. The youngest, still in diapers, whimpered softly.
It was the middle of December. No heat. No food. Just thin blankets, a couple of dented soup cans, and the boy clutching a small knife like his life depended on it.
“Please don’t take us back,” he whispered. “Please. He said he’d hurt my sister again.”

The Wounds No Child Should Carry

That’s when we saw them—marks across the little girl’s arms. Signs of pain no child should endure. The baby’s cheek bore a cut, half-healed and covered in dirt. His diaper sagged, cold and soaked through.
The boy’s name was Max. He told us they had run from their mother’s boyfriend, a man who hurt them often. Their mother had disappeared weeks ago and never returned. The children had been surviving alone in that bus.

A Silent Decision