Then I heard it—a faint, controlled breath. Like someone trying not to make a sound.

Every muscle in my body went rigid.

“Oh my God,” I muttered.

Because tucked against the wall wasn’t a shadow or an intruder.

It was another little girl.

She lay curled on her side, shivering in a thin yellow sweater, her wide eyes locked onto mine.

“Luis,” I called. “Get in here.”

He stepped in, and when I lifted the bed skirt, he froze. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

The girl flinched. I softened my voice. “Hey… it’s okay. You’re safe. Can you come out?”

She pressed herself deeper into the corner. When I reached toward her, I could feel the heat before touching her.

“She’s burning up,” I said.

We carefully pulled her out. She was smaller than I expected, limp with fear and fever. Dana stepped in and stopped cold at the sight.

From the hallway, Mia gasped. “That’s the girl.”

We brought her downstairs and settled her on the couch.

“What’s your name?” I asked gently.

No answer.

“Where’s your mom?”

Still nothing.

Her eyes flicked to my hands—and then she began signing.

Dana noticed first. “She uses sign language.”

The girl’s hands moved faster, urgent but controlled. Dana caught pieces: “Scared… hid… bed…”

Mia stepped closer. “I dropped my teddy. When I bent down, I saw her eyes.”

No wonder she panicked.

The girl signed again, then pointed toward the front door.

“Someone outside?” I asked.

She nodded, then shook her head, frustrated.

“We’re missing something,” Luis muttered.

The girl slipped off the couch and hurried to the door, pointing at it again and again.

Then the doorknob turned.