Chapter Text
Shoupe’s boots crunched against the gravel of the Maybank driveway, the sound cutting through the crisp fall air. The property was just ahead, a battered relic of Kildare’s rougher history. To most of the police force, it was infamous—a revolving door for trouble.
But for Victor Shoupe, it wasn’t quite notorious.
At least not yet, anyway.
He was just a rookie, a first year cop, stuck on the bottom rung of the food chain of the Kildare County Police Department.
And that’s how he’d ended up there on a cool fall Saturday morning, dispatched for a wellness check.
Nothing glamorous. But nothing too dangerous.
Just another quiet errand that wouldn’t earn him any points with the brass.
He didn’t expect much from the call, but something about the property—a lingering sadness etched into its bones—made him uneasy.
A rusted out car sat on cinder blocks near the front steps, as he made his way up the drive and an overturned tricycle lay abandoned in the dirt in the yard.
The neighbor who had called in the 911 tip, an older women with graying hair and frayed nerves, met him outside, wringing her hands, the soft sound of a child crying hung in the air.
“I don’t know what’s going on in there,” she said, voice shaking. “The little one’s been crying for hours. I’ve tried knocking but his dad…he’s not answering the door.”
“Stay here. I’ll take a look,” Shoupe instructed, his tone calm but firm.
As he stepped onto the creaking porch, he heard it clear as day, loud and unfiltered, the sound of a child crying through the thin door. Shoupe knocked loudly, calling out, “Kildare County Police Department! Is anyone there?”
No response, except the cries getting louder.
He tried again but nothing.
He finally pushed the door expecting to have to use force but to his surprise it opened easily, with only the hinges groaning in protest.
The smell hit him first—a mix of stale beer, sweat, and something sour that made his stomach churn. He scanned the small space—clothes and trash were scattered everywhere, and an ashtray was overturned on the armrest of a sagging couch.
“Hello?” Shoupe called again, stepping carefully into the room.
That’s when he saw him.
A little boy, no more than two, sat huddled on the floor near the coffee table. His blond hair was matted, his cheeks streaked with tears and dirt. He was small, tiny even. He clutched a toy truck in his tiny hands, its wheels missing, his knuckles white as if it were the only thing holding him together.
“Hey there, buddy,” Shoupe said, crouching down slowly to meet the boy’s eye level. His voice softened, the kind he used with his young nieces. “It’s okay. I’m only here to help.”
The boy’s tear filled blue eyes darted to him, bright, wide and fearful. His lip quivered, but he didn’t speak.
Didn’t move.
Shoupe took a step closer, holding his hands out palms up, trying harder to show he wasn’t a threat. “My name’s Vick. What’s your name?”
The boy sniffled, shrinking back as his grip tightened on the toy truck.
“It’s okay,” Shoupe assured him, his heart breaking at the sight. “I’m not gonna hurt you, I promise. Can I help you up?”
The boy’s mouth opened, but only a weak, hiccupping sob came out. His cry almost hoarse as it hit Shoupe that he really may have been crying, alone all night long.
Then, slowly, the boy reached his tiny, trembling hands toward Shoupe.
He closed the distance in a single stride, scooping the boy into his arms. He was so light, and Shoupe could feel the bony jut of his shoulder blades even through the fabric of his thin t-shirt.
“Shh, I got you now,” Shoupe murmured, holding the boy close as he cried into his uniform. “You’re okay. You’re safe.”
His radio crackled to life. “Officer Shoupe, what’s the status?”
He pressed the button on his shoulder mic, keeping his voice steady. “I’ve got a child here—toddler, male, maybe two years old, appears unharmed but possibly neglected.”
As he turned toward the couch, he saw a man slumped over half hidden behind it, an empty bottle dangling from his limp hand. The rise and fall of his chest was faint but there.
“Father is unresponsive. Requesting EMS. Possible overdose,” Shoupe added grimly, shifting the boy higher on his hip.
The boy whimpered at the movement, his tiny hands clutching Shoupe’s uniform tightly.
“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” Shoupe said again, rubbing the boy’s back gently. “You don’t need to worry about him right now. Let’s get you some fresh air, huh?”
By the time EMS arrived, the boy had stopped crying, though his wide, tear-streaked eyes stayed glued to Shoupe like a lifeline.
He still hadn’t said a single word, not even when the paramedics crouched down to his level, speaking softly as they unwrapped a fresh blanket and draped it over his small shoulders.
“You’re okay now, sweetheart,” one of the paramedics murmured, carefully brushing dirt from his cheek with a damp cloth. “We’ll take good care of you.”
The boy flinched slightly but didn’t pull away. He just sat there, silent, his tiny hands gripping the edge of the blanket.
Shoupe crouched beside him, lowering his voice to something softer than usual. “They’re just here to make sure you’re all right, buddy.”
The boy didn’t respond, didn’t nod or even blink. Shoupe’s heart twisted.
This kid wasn’t scared—he was beyond that. He looked almost empty.
When the paramedics finished cleaning up a scrape on his elbow, one of them gently scooped him up. The boy stiffened for a moment before his arms shot out, reaching desperately for Shoupe. His face crumpled, fresh tears spilling down his cheeks.
Shoupe hesitated, his throat tightening as the boy’s silent plea hung between them.
“I’ll see you soon, okay,” he finally promised, his voice thick, though he wasn’t sure how he’d make good on it. He just knew he had to say something.
That look in the boy’s eyes—it wasn’t something he could just walk away from.
But this was a job. Just a job to do.
So turning, Shoupe shoved his hands into his pockets, his jaw tight as he headed back toward the house.
“Officer,” a voice called softly, drawing his attention.
The older woman from earlier stood on the lawn next door, her face lined with worry as she clutched a shawl around her shoulders. She hesitated before stepping closer. “Thank you for coming.”
Shoupe nodded. “Thanks to your call, ma’am. You did good.”
Her lips pressed into a thin line. “That boy…his name’s JJ. He just turned three this past summer.”
Shoupe stopped, the weight of her words settling on him like a stone. “Three?” he repeated, his voice barely audible.
The woman nodded, her eyes glassy. “I don’t interact much with them these days, but he’s usually out here by himself—sometimes for hours. And he doesn’t talk. Never heard a peep out of him. Not once.”
Shoupe’s stomach churned as she glanced back at the ambulance.
“His daddy…” she began, her voice dropping to a whisper. “He’s bad off. Real bad. I don’t know how that little one’s even made it this far.”
Shoupe swallowed hard and forced himself to meet her gaze. “Thanks for letting us know.”
The woman gave a faint nod, but her hands were still trembling as she clutched her shawl tighter.
Shoupe turned back toward the scene, his eyes landing on the ambulance where the boy sat, bundled in the blanket, his tiny frame dwarfed by the paramedics bustling around him.
He wasn’t crying anymore, but his expression hadn’t changed. His eyes were wide and distant, as though he’d already given up expecting anything better.
Shoupe’s gut twisted as he made his way back to his cruiser. But he stopped halfway, glancing over his shoulder.
The boy’s gaze met his again.
Shoupe smiled faintly, doing his best to make it look reassuring, but inside, he felt sick. He’d seen a lot of bad things in this line of work so far—things he’d learned to push aside.
But something about that kid, sitting there so quietly in the back of the ambulance, was different.
He couldn’t shake the feeling that, for this little boy, it wasn’t just one bad day.
This was his whole life.
So Shoupe made some calls.
It took longer than he’d have liked. EMS and other personnel moved on to other dispatches, other problems, leaving Shoupe alone with the boy—JJ.
The two of them sat on the porch steps, the cool breeze tugging at Shouoe’s jacket now wrapped around JJ’s shoulders. He tried to talk, but the boy barely responded.
“You like dogs, kid? I got a big golden retriever at home named Dixie. She’s got one of those big smiles—bet you’d like her,” Shoupe said, his voice deliberately light.
JJ didn’t answer.
He just sat there, too quiet, too still for a three year old.
Shoupe tried again, talking about anything—his fishing boat, the hot dogs at the pier, the time he’d caught a shark the size of his leg.
Nothing.
JJ’s silence pressed heavy on Shoupe’s chest.
Occasionally, the boy’s eyes would dart up, watching Shoupe cautiously, but when their gazes met, JJ’s face would shutter, retreating back into himself.
Eventually, the sound of an approaching engine cut through the tension, and a beat-up minivan rattled to a stop in front of the house.
Shoupe’s chest tightened with anticipation as he watched the door slide open. A boy—probably about fourteen with dark wild curls—jumped out first, his sneakers slapping the pavement as he sprinted toward the house.
“JJ!” the older boy called, his voice filled with relief.
JJ’s head shot up at the sound, his dull expression lighting with recognition. In an instant, he was on his feet, the jacket slipping from his shoulders as he launched himself off the porch steps and into the older boy’s arms.
The boy caught him easily, lifting him up like it was second nature. “I got you, little man,” he murmured, holding JJ close.
A woman climbed out of the driver’s seat, her movements hurried but steady. Her hair was pulled back in a messy bun, and her face looked worn—like someone who’d had to juggle too much for too long. She was followed by a herd of kids spilling out of the van, ranging from little kids to teenagers.
“Officer Shoupe?” the woman asked, her voice soft but firm.
“That’s me,” Shoupe said, standing.
“I’m Janelle,” she said, glancing at JJ, who clung to the older boy’s neck like a lifeline. Her voice softened as she turned back to Shoupe. “Luke’s my brother. I came as soon as I could.”
She walked over to JJ, brushing a hand gently over his hair. “Hey there, sugar. You go with Ricki, okay?”
JJ gave the faintest nod, his grip on his cousin never loosening.
Janelle straightened and looked back at Shoupe. “Thanks for giving me a chance. JJ can stay with us. I’ll make sure he’s okay until Luke gets back on his feet.”
Shoupe nodded, but unease churned in his gut. “Looks like you’ve got your hands plenty full already,” he said, gesturing toward the cluster of kids milling around her.
Janelle sighed, her exhaustion evident, but her resolve didn’t waver. “He’s family. I’ll do whatever I can.”
As she started ushering the kids back toward the van, the older boy carried JJ without complaint, murmuring quietly to him. JJ didn’t say a word, but his head rested on his cousin’s shoulder, his tiny hands still clutching his shirt.
Shoupe watched them, his heart heavy. He wasn’t sure what to think. The situation—it didn’t scream stability.
Later, when Shoupe brought it up to his sheriff, the older man waved him off.
“This isn’t something we get involved in, Vick,” the sheriff said gruffly. “You’re not social services. They’ll figure it out.”
Shoupe clenched his jaw, fighting the urge to argue. He knew how these things went. Cases like this fell through the cracks all the time.
But every time he closed his eyes, all he could see was JJ reaching for him, how small and fragile he’d looked, clinging to his cousin like his life depended on it.
So Shoupe made a silent promise right then and there.
This wasn’t over. Not for him. Not for JJ.