Chapter 2 - Five Empty BowlsDaniel called Margaret back.
No answer.
He called again.
Nothing.
Then he called Ethan’s phone.
Straight to voicemail.
Daniel stared at the screen.
Ethan had been sick three days earlier.
Nothing serious according to the clinic—fever, cough, weakness—but Daniel had nearly canceled his work trip anyway.
Margaret had insisted.
“I raised you on that farm,” she had said. “I can handle one twelve-year-old boy.”
Daniel had believed her.
Now he remembered Ethan’s voice from the day before.
Quiet.
Careful.
“Dad, when are you coming home?”
“Friday.”
There had been a pause.
“Can you come sooner?”
Daniel had assumed Ethan missed him.
Now the sentence felt different.
He called again.
Still nothing.
At the farm, Ethan sat with his back against the covered wall of the kennel.
The five dogs remained away from him.
None growled.
None approached aggressively.
They simply watched.
Ethan knew most of them.
They were working dogs that helped move sheep and guarded the flock.
Three months ago they had been broad-chested, energetic animals.
Now they looked like shadows of themselves.
Ethan glanced toward five metal bowls.
Empty.
He crawled carefully toward the nearest one.
Not a piece of food.
The water tub contained only a shallow layer of rainwater and dirt.
Ethan remembered the envelope he had found that afternoon.
He had gone into Margaret’s office looking for the digital thermometer.
Instead, he knocked a folder onto the floor.
Invoices scattered.
DOG FEED — $684.
MINERAL SUPPLEMENTS — $211.
VETERINARY SERVICES — $390.
The dates were recent.
But Ethan knew something was wrong.
He had helped unload feed before Daniel’s trip.
There had been almost none.
The dogs had not seen a veterinarian in months.
Then Ethan found a bank statement beneath the invoices.
Several transfers.
Same amount.
Same destination.
M. HART ACCOUNT.
Margaret Hart.
His grandmother.
Ethan had taken the papers to her.
“Why does Dad’s farm account keep sending money to you?”
That was when her face changed.
Now he was in the kennel.
The brown-and-white dog lifted its head.
Ethan whispered, “You guys hungry too?”
Its tail moved once against the mud.
Ethan felt something twist inside him.
He had thought the dogs were getting older.
He had believed Margaret when she said working animals sometimes lost weight during busy seasons.
Now he understood.
They were not naturally thin.
They were starving.
And somehow, the money meant to feed them was disappearing.
Inside the farmhouse, Margaret finally answered Daniel’s third call.
“What is it?”
Her warm voice had returned.
“Put Ethan on.”
“He’s sleeping.”
“You said he was outside playing.”
Margaret paused.
“He came in.”
“In two minutes?”
“Daniel, you sound ridiculous.”
His jaw tightened.
“Put him on the phone.”
“He doesn’t need you frightening him because you’re nervous.”
“Mom.”
The tone stopped her.
“I want to talk to my son.”
Another pause.
Then Margaret sighed.
“He left his phone upstairs. He’s tired. I’m not waking a sick child because you heard something in the rain.”
Daniel stared at the wall.
“When did he eat dinner?”
“Six.”
“What did he eat?”
Margaret answered too quickly.
“Chicken soup.”
Daniel closed his eyes.
Ethan hated chicken soup.
Always had.
“Wake him.”
“Daniel—”
“Wake him now.”
The call went silent.
Then disconnected.
Daniel stood perfectly still.
His next decision took less than thirty seconds.
He opened his suitcase.
May you like
Not to unpack.
To leave.
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