The St. Jude's Home for Children was a jagged monolith of soot-stained brick and iron gates that seemed to absorb the very light of the city. To the world outside, it was a charity; to the children inside, it was a waiting room for a life that had already forgotten them.
Erik arrived at the gates in the back of a social worker's sedan. He carried nothing but a small plastic bag of clothes that smelled of cedar and the heavy, invisible burden of the valley. He had not spoken a word since the sheriff pulled him from the crawlspace. His throat felt as though it had been cauterized by the screams he had suppressed, leaving him a hollow shell of a boy.
