We walked in silence for ten minutes, our steps muffled by the shallow, muddy water pooling on the floor.

Isabella led the way with a small flashlight, its beam bouncing off the slimy brick walls.

The children did not cry, but I could feel Oliver’s little heart beating like a trapped bird against my chest.

Eventually, we climbed another set of metal rungs, emerging into a vast, dark space.

It was an old brick warehouse, smelling of dry wood, old grease, and diesel fuel.

Rows of towering wooden crates stretched into the shadows.

“This is a cold site,” Isabella whispered, turning off her flashlight as the dim streetlights from high, dirt-caked windows illuminated the floor.

“They don’t know about this one yet.”

She turned to me, her gray eyes reflecting the faint gray light from the street.

“You are safe here, Maya,” she said, her voice softening for the first time. “For now.”

“Thank you,” I said, my voice shaking as I set Oliver down on a stack of folded moving blankets.

Adrian carefully placed Noah and Lena beside him, kneeling on the dirty floor to make sure they did not slip.