I checked on Emma, who was still happily playing in our fenced backyard. The crisis would take an hour at most. Emma was safe in our locked yard. I could see her from my office window, or so I thought.
Twenty minutes into my emergency call, I noticed Emma was no longer at her piano. I scanned the yard but couldn't see her. My heart jumped, but I told myself she was probably just playing behind the big oak tree where she liked to collect acorns.
The call dragged on for another forty minutes. When it finally ended, I rushed to check on Emma. The backyard was empty, her piano sat silent, her favorite stuffed bunny lay forgotten on the grass.
"Emma," I called, my voice rising with panic. "Emma!"
A faint cry answered me from behind our garden shed. What I found there will haunt me for the rest of my life.
My daughter was locked inside a large metal dog crate. The sun beat down directly on the cage with no shade. Her face was bright red, her hair soaked with sweat. Her cochlear implants were on the ground outside the cage, leaving her in a world of terrifying silence. A bicycle lock secured the door.
"Oh, my God, Emma." I fell to my knees beside the cage. I tried to break the lock, but it was too strong. I ran to the garage for tools, my hands shaking so badly I could hardly grip the bolt cutters.