“Mr. Hale?” I called out.
There was a sudden shuffle from the back room. Too quick. Too nervous.
That’s when I heard it.
A soft whimper.
I followed the sound and stopped in the doorway of the bedroom.
Mr. Hale—eighty years old, frail but still stubbornly independent—was crouched awkwardly beside his bed, his body positioned like he was trying to block something from view. His hands trembled slightly, not just from age, but from being caught.
“I… I can explain,” he said quickly, his voice thin.
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