I slowed my pace. Something in the pit of my stomach, an instinct honed by decades of fatherhood, twisted violently. I recognized the license plate.

I walked closer, my breath hitching in my throat. Through the haze on the glass, I saw movement. I leaned in, shielding my eyes from the grey glare of the sky. My heart didn’t just stop; it plummeted.

It was Michael.

He was in the driver’s seat, slumped awkwardly against the door. But it was the back seat that shattered me. There, curled up under a single, heavy wool blanket, were Nathan and Oliver. My five-year-old grandsons were sleeping amidst a nest of clothes, fast-food wrappers, and stuffed animals.

I stood frozen for a moment, the cold wind forgotten, replaced by a searing heat of confusion and horror. I knocked on the window.