Stella, her heart pounding a nervous rhythm against her ribs, opened the door to her sparsely furnished room.

The faint scent of lavender from a half-empty bottle on the dresser was the only attempt at softening the stark white walls.

Bryce, a small boy with wide, trusting eyes, stood hesitantly on the threshold. His gaze, a mixture of curiosity and apprehension, settled on the rumpled bed. "Is this your room, Mom?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

The word "Mom," so small and ...