How were we going to afford his special formula now?

How were we going to pay for the prescription medications he needed?

The door to the room creaked open.

I expected to see the nurse, Sarah, coming in to check Sam’s vitals.

Instead, a woman I had never seen before stood in the doorway.

She wore a dark grey pantsuit and carried a thick leather clipboard.

Her eyes scanned the room, lingering on the empty paper cups on the bedside table and the tangled sheets of my bed.

“Grace Sullivan?” she asked.

Her voice was professional, clipped, and completely devoid of warmth.

“Yes,” I said, sitting up a little straighter.

“Who are you?”

She stepped into the room, letting the heavy door swing shut behind her.

The latch clicked into place with a sharp, final sound.

“My name is Evelyn Vance,” she said, pulling a laminated ID badge from her jacket pocket.

“I’m an investigator with the Iowa Department of Human Services.”

My breath caught in my throat.

“Human Services?” I repeated.

“Why are you here?”

She didn’t answer right away.