“Please… don’t send me back.”

Nate came home with us that afternoon.

His hands were wrapped in soft medical dressings, and the black gloves remained in the paper evidence bag until the caseworker decided whether law enforcement needed them.

He asked about them three times during the drive.

“They smell wrong without them,” he said.

Lila glanced at him through the mirror.

“What do you mean?”

He immediately looked away.

“Nothing.”

At the house, Lauren Shaw inspected the guest room, checked the locks, photographed the sleeping arrangement, and recorded who lived in the home. She explained that a temporary family placement was not the same as legal custody.

Marcus could withdraw from the voluntary plan.

If he did, the agency would have to decide whether to seek emergency court intervention.

“You cannot question Nate repeatedly about what happened,” Lauren told us. “You may listen if he speaks. Do not suggest names or causes. Do not promise outcomes that depend on the court.”

I wanted to tell her I knew how to protect my nephew.

Instead, I listened.

Protection without discipline could become another form of control.

That evening, Nate refused dinner until Lila showed him the labels on every cleaning product used in the kitchen.

“There’s no bleach in the food,” she said carefully.

“I know.”

“Then what are you checking?”

He looked at his bandages.

“Karen said germs move from your hands into things.”

Lila sat across from him.

“Everyone’s hands carry ordinary germs. Washing before eating is enough.”

“Not if your hands are dishonest.”

The sentence seemed to surprise him after it escaped.

I kept my voice quiet.

“Who told you hands can be dishonest?”

Nate pushed back from the table.

“I’m tired.”

He slept for eleven hours.

At 3:00 the following afternoon, a child advocacy center interviewer met with him. Neither Lila nor I observed. The session was recorded, and only trained professionals participated.

Nate returned pale and exhausted.

He did not tell us what he had said.

He asked whether Rosie could sleep beside his bed.

That night, Lauren called.

The agency had learned enough to request an emergency custody hearing.

“What did he disclose?” I asked.

“I cannot give you a complete forensic interview report. I can tell you the allegations involve repeated punishment at his father’s residence and possible use of household or workshop chemicals.”

My hand tightened around the phone.

“Marcus knew?”

“That remains under investigation.”

The hearing was scheduled for the next morning.

Marcus arrived with an attorney.

Karen sat behind him carrying the same leather folder.

The agency attorney presented the hospital findings, Nate’s expressed fear of returning, photographs of the injuries, and limited information from his interview.

Marcus’s attorney argued that Nate suffered from anxiety-driven skin picking and compulsive washing following his mother’s death.

He introduced the six-month-old medical report.

The judge read the line stating that Nate had not attended the consultation.

“What did this physician evaluate?” she asked.

Karen’s attorney explained that the doctor had reviewed descriptions and photographs provided by Karen.

“Was a physical examination conducted?”

“No.”

“Was the doctor told that punishment involving cleaning products was alleged?”

“We dispute that any punishment occurred.”

The judge did not determine criminal guilt.

She issued a temporary protective placement order allowing Nate to remain with us while child protection completed its investigation. Marcus received supervised communication at Nate’s request, subject to therapeutic guidance.

Karen was ordered not to contact Nate directly.

Outside the courtroom, Marcus grabbed my arm.

“You have no idea what you’re doing.”

I removed his hand.

“You should not touch me.”

“He is sick, Ethan.”

“He is injured.”

“He lies.”

“He is afraid of you.”

Marcus’s face tightened.

“You think Melissa would want you stealing her son?”

The accusation worked because part of me feared it.

Melissa had never named me guardian in the documents I had seen. She and I had argued during the final year of her life. She believed I judged Marcus. I believed she excused him.

Then she died in a highway collision before either of us apologized.

I had spent three years wondering whether helping Nate meant correcting my sister’s choices or disrespecting them.

Lila joined us.

“The hearing is over,” she said. “Walk away.”

Marcus looked past her toward Nate, who stood beside Lauren near the courthouse doors.

For one second, something like grief crossed his face.

Then Karen touched his elbow.

Marcus left with her.

On the drive home, Nate remained silent until we turned onto our street.

Then he said, “She’ll clean the room.”

“What room?” I asked.

He stared at the wrapped palms in his lap.