My Little Neighbor Didn’t Let Anyone Into His Home Until a Police Officer Arrived and Stepped Inside
Then, from somewhere deeper inside the house, we heard a loud crack. Like something heavy had snapped or fallen.
I jumped. Murray stiffened.
“What was that?” he asked.
“The house is old,” Jack said quickly. “It does that.”
The place felt wrong.
“Jack,” Murray said, calm but firmer now, “step back, please.”
Jack’s jaw tightened.
But he moved.
We walked inside.
The place felt wrong.
“Anyone home?”
There was one ancient couch. A wobbly table. A couple of boxes. No pictures. No lamps. No sign of grown-up life.
“Police!” Murray called. “Anyone home?”
Nothing.
The kitchen sink was full of dishes. Trash overflowing. A pot on the stove with something burned solid in it.
He checked the short hallway.
One mattress on the floor.
Bathroom. Empty.
Bedroom. One mattress on the floor. Thin blanket. Pillow. A backpack and a skateboard.
That was about it.
Murray came back and faced Jack.
“How long has your mom been gone?” he asked.
“You’ve been here alone that long?”
Jack stared at the floor.
“A while,” he mumbled.
“How long is ‘a while’?” Murray pressed.
Jack shifted, tugging at his sleeve.
“A week,” he said. Then, in a rush, “Or nine days.”
“Mom sends money when she can.”
My hand flew to my mouth.
“Alone?” I said. “You’ve been here alone that long?”
Jack’s back went stiff.
“I’m fine,” he said. “I go to school. I make food. Mom sends money when she can. She had to help my grandparents. There wasn’t room for me to go. She said I’d be okay.”
“You shouldn’t be handling this by yourself.”
He sounded like he was repeating something, not believing it.
“I’m almost 13,” he added, like that turned him into an adult.
Murray’s voice softened.
“You’re still a kid,” he said. “You shouldn’t be handling this by yourself.”
Jack’s eyes filled.
“Please don’t take me away.”
“Please don’t take me away,” he whispered. “I don’t want to go live with strangers. I’m doing fine. Just… don’t get my mom in trouble. Please.”
He turned to me like I had any power.
“Tell him,” he begged. “Tell him I’m okay, Mrs. Doyle.”
I walked closer, knees complaining.
“You’re not okay.”
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