The next few days were a blur of nervous anticipation. Caleb's agreement, while a tremendous relief, also brought with it a fresh wave of anxiety. Now that a plan was in motion, the stakes felt even higher. The loft, which had once felt like a secure cocoon, now felt like a cage, its walls closing in with every passing hour.

I meticulously drafted the message, keeping it short and unambiguous. "Jackson is safe—blue patchwork blanket. Small scar, left calf. Seek discreet contact." The ...