“Sir,” I said to Rick. “Who is that?”
“Nobody. His great-grandma. She’s got dementia. She says crazy stuff. She’s fine.”
“Ma’am?” I called, raising my voice past him into the dark hallway. “Ma’am, this is the Portland Police. Do you need help?”
A long pause.
Then, very faintly: “Yes. Oh, please. Yes.”
That was all I needed.
When somebody inside a house tells a police officer she needs help, the law doesn’t make me stand on the porch and argue about warrants.
“Step back from the door, Mr. Paulsen,” I said. “Take the chain off. Now.”
He stared at me for a long second. Then he unhooked the chain.
I keyed my radio and asked for a backup unit and medics to Larch Street, and I stepped inside.
The house was dim and hot and smelled like old grease and something worse underneath. The living room had a giant flat-screen TV, the biggest one I’d ever seen in a house that size. A gaming console. A brand-new leather sectional with the tags still hanging off one arm.
The kitchen was a mess of takeout boxes. On the refrigerator door was a heavy padlock and hasp, screwed right into the plastic.
I looked at that padlock. Then I looked down at Eli, who’d come in behind me and was standing very close, and I thought about his too-small shoes. About how thin his wrists looked sticking out of his jacket sleeves.
“Who’s got the key to that?” I asked.
“Darla,” Eli said quietly. “Rick’s girlfriend. She’s at work. She says I eat too much.”
I took a slow breath.
“Where’s your grandma, Eli?”
He pointed down the narrow hallway. At the end of it was a closed bedroom door.
There was a brand-new brass slide bolt on it. On the outside of the door. Up high, where a seven-year-old couldn’t reach it.
I walked down that hallway. I slid the bolt back. I opened the door.
The room was small, with one window. The blinds were shut and taped at the edges with duct tape. The air was stale and hot. There was a hospital bed against the wall and an old wooden rocking chair beside it. A portable toilet in the corner that hadn’t been emptied in a long time.
And in the bed, under a thin blanket, was a tiny old woman with white hair spread across the pillow.
She was so thin. Her arms on top of the blanket looked like sticks wrapped in tissue paper. Her lips were cracked.
On the nightstand beside her bed sat a plastic cup with a bendy straw. It was empty. Next to it was a single saltine cracker in a napkin.
She turned her head slowly toward the door. Toward the light.
And when she saw Eli standing behind me, her whole face changed.
“My boy,” she whispered. “My good boy. You brought somebody.”
Lila Hart is a dedicated Digital Archivist and Research Specialist with a keen eye for preserving and curating meaningful content. At TheArchivists, she specializes in organizing and managing digital archives, ensuring that valuable stories and historical moments are accessible for generations to come.
Lila earned her degree in History and Archival Studies from the University of Edinburgh, where she cultivated her passion for documenting the past and preserving cultural heritage. Her expertise lies in combining traditional archival techniques with modern digital tools, allowing her to create comprehensive and engaging collections that resonate with audiences worldwide.
At TheArchivists, Lila is known for her meticulous attention to detail and her ability to uncover hidden gems within extensive archives. Her work is praised for its depth, authenticity, and contribution to the preservation of knowledge in the digital age.
Driven by a commitment to preserving stories that matter, Lila is passionate about exploring the intersection of history and technology. Her goal is to ensure that every piece of content she handles reflects the richness of human experiences and remains a source of inspiration for years to come.