My eight-year-old sister was thrown out of the house by our adoptive parents on Christmas night.

A nurse wrapped Mia in warm blankets, murmuring softly as if sound itself might break her. Her vitals were taken. Then retaken. Then checked again.

Hypothermia.
Early stages.

Bruised ribs.
Old marks.
New ones.

Patterns no accident could explain.

Mia’s fingers stayed wrapped around mine the entire time, even while she slept—as if letting go might mean disappearing.

“She’s lucky,” the doctor said quietly, meeting my eyes. “Another hour out there, and this would be a very different conversation.”

I nodded.

I didn’t need him to finish the sentence.

While Mia slept, I stepped into the hallway and made my calls.

Not frantic ones.
Not emotional ones.
Not the kind that beg.

I made careful calls.

First, a lawyer I trusted—the kind who listens more than he speaks.
Then a detective who still believed paperwork could be louder than money.
Then Child Protective Services.