But when I arrived at their house, there was no dog.
Only their five-year-old son, locked in a room.

It was a quiet Sunday when Carla, my sister-in-law, called me.
Her voice sounded light… too light.

“Hi Paula! Could you do me a small favor? Could you stop by my house and feed Buddy for a few days? We came to the Lago Dorado resort for a family weekend. You’re an angel!”

Buddy was an adorable golden retriever: playful, affectionate, always wagging his tail.
I accepted without hesitation.

His house was twenty minutes away.
But as soon as I arrived, I felt that something wasn’t right.

There were no barks.
There were no noises.
His car wasn’t in the driveway.

The spare key was still under the pot of fern.
I opened the door… and the heavy air inside hit me.
Hot, stuffy, almost suffocating.

The dog’s bowls were empty.
Everything seemed normal… and at the same time, absolutely not.

“Buddy?” I called.
Silence.

I checked room by room.
No dogs.

Then I heard it.
A soft sound.
Like the rustling of a blanket.
It was coming from the hallway.
From behind a closed door.

“Is anyone there?” I asked, my voice trembling.

A weak response, barely a whisper:

“Mom said you weren’t coming.”

My heart froze.

“Who’s there?”
“…It’s me. Davi.”

Carla’s son. Five years old.

I tried to open the door, but it was locked from the outside .
My hands trembled as I forced the lock.
When it finally gave way, the hot air and the strong smell of urine hit me like a punch.

Davi was on the floor, pale, very thin, clutching his small stuffed dinosaur.
He had deep dark circles under his eyes and his skin was burning with fever.

“Davi, darling… how long have you been here?”

He looked up, exhausted:

“Since Friday. Mom said I was naughty.”

I picked him up—he was so light he barely weighed anything—and ran to the car.
On the way to the hospital, his little voice broke the silence:

“Mom said… that if you came… don’t tell anyone.”

In the emergency room, the doctors took him away immediately.
Severe dehydration.
Malnutrition.
He weighed less than a healthy three-year-old child.

When they asked me what had happened, I told them everything…
except one thing.

I didn’t say Carla’s name.

But then my phone vibrated.
A message from her.

“Thank you for feeding Buddy.
And Paula… don’t meddle in things that aren’t your business.
Some things are better left alone.”

I felt a shiver run through my body.

And in that instant, with the phone trembling in my hands, I did the hardest—and most necessary—thing I’ve ever done in my life:

I reported her.
For Davi.
For the truth.
Because staying silent would have made me just as guilty as she was.