Her voice was strained, like she was holding herself together by force.

My stomach dropped.

“Why?” I asked softly.

She didn’t respond—just glanced down the hallway and said, “Just… wait.”

Then I heard it.

A scream.

Not an ordinary toddler cry. Not frustration or a quick outburst.

This was fear—piercing, desperate, nonstop.

It echoed from a side hall parents weren’t meant to enter.

Ms. Carter looked at me, and my blood turned cold.

I started walking.

The screaming grew louder.

Then I noticed the door.

A plain, windowless storage door—locked from the outside.

A staff member stood guard in front of it, arms folded.

She frowned when she saw me. “Parents can’t be back here.”

Another scream cut through the air.

I knew that voice.

“Miles?” I said, my throat tightening.

The caregiver scoffed. “He’s overreacting. Stay out of it.”

Something primal took over.

I pushed past her and grabbed the handle. When it wouldn’t open, I slammed my shoulder into the door.