My husband cooked dinner—and minutes later, my son and I collapsed on the floor

I dialed 911.

The call dropped.

I tried again. And again.

Finally—someone picked up.

“911, what’s your emergency?”

“My husband drugged us,” I whispered. “He stole everything. He’s running. Please—help us.”

The dispatcher told me to lock ourselves somewhere safe until officers arrived. I pulled Noah into the bathroom, locked the door, and turned on the faucet—making him sip water just to keep him awake.

Then my phone buzzed.

Unknown number:

CHECK THE TRASH. PROOF. HE’S COMING BACK.

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