The next hour was chaos. Police flooded the house. They found the drug operation in the basement. Found evidence Dale had been stealing from evidence lock-up for years. Found records of his dealing network.
They found us five kids, malnourished and terrified, but alive.
A biker and a kid with a cardboard sign.
The social worker who’d called us liars showed up, trying to do damage control. Morrison stopped her at the door.
“These kids are coming with us,” he said. “My wife and I are licensed emergency foster parents. They’ll stay with us until we sort this out.”
“You can’t just—”
“Watch me.”
We ended up at Morrison’s house – a beautiful place with a yard and a garage full of motorcycles. His wife, Linda, had been a social worker for thirty years. She took one look at us and started making food.
“You’re safe now,” she kept saying. “You’re safe.”
That night, the entire motorcycle club showed up. Not to party. To meet us. To make sure we understood we weren’t alone anymore.
