“Maisy!” I screamed.

She didn’t answer. She just kept walking, her eyes fixed on a horizon I couldn’t see. When I reached her, I saw the extent of the damage. Scratches crisscrossed her arms. Her lips were cracked and bleeding from dehydration. A dark bruise was blooming on her cheekbone.

And Theo was silent.

“Give him to me,” I gasped, reaching for my son.

Maisy recoiled, her grip tightening. “Can’t,” she croaked, her voice a ruin of what it used to be. “Have to keep him safe. He’s coming.”

“Who’s coming, baby? Who?”

“Grandpa,” she whispered. “Grandpa tried to take him.”