My 6-year-old nephew dragged his broken leg across seven blocks with his starving little sister clinging to his shirt, w

Peter carried Lily inside, with Drew limping closely behind, his small hand gripping the back of Peter's flannel shirt like a lifeline. The house was warm, smelling faintly of coffee and cedar—a stark contrast to the cold, damp basement Drew had described.

Peter set Lily down gently on the living room sofa, wrapping a thick fleece blanket around her small shoulders. She pulled her knees to her chest, her eyes tracking Peter’s every movement but remaining entirely silent.

"Okay, buddy," Peter said softly, turning his attention to Drew. "Let's get that knee cleaned up. It's going to sting a little, but I'll be quick."

In the bathroom, Peter retrieved a first-aid kit. He used a warm, damp washcloth to clear away the grime and dried blood around the severe scrape. Drew hissed in pain, his small fists clenching the edge of the bathroom counter, but he didn't pull away.

"You were so brave, Drew," Peter murmured as he applied an antibacterial ointment and carefully bandaged the wound. "Carrying her all that way. I am so incredibly proud of you."

Drew looked up, his lower lip trembling. "Mom was asleep. She gets angry when we wake her up. She put the padlock on the basement door yesterday morning. I found a loose window above the dryer. I had to push Lily out first."

Peter’s chest tightened, suppressing the fresh wave of rage threatening to boil over. His sister, Diane, had always struggled, but this crossed a line from neglect into outright cruelty.

"You don't have to worry about that window, or that door, ever again," Peter promised, his voice steady and resolute. "Are you guys hungry?"