My son’s room stinks. There’s no other way to say it, no beating around the bush. His room is absolutely foul. If he was a teenager, I’d have assumed it was just a byproduct of puberty, negligent hygiene, and stale food molding in the back of his closet. But this smell is something much more pungent and he’s only 10.

It started a week after we’d moved into the new house. There was no slight funk that led up to the stench. I walked in to wake him up for school one morning and there it was. As I inhaled to call his name, the smell hit the back of my throat with such a force I gagged mid yell. Being exposed to something so atrocious couldn’t be healthy. It smelt like mildew and death. Tommy slowly rose from his slumber, seeming unbothered by the smell at all. I dragged him out of bed, my breakfast bobbing in my throat the entire time.

“What the hell is that smell?” I mumbled under my breath.

“Danny’s stinky,” Tommy mumbled.

At the time, I’d chalked it up to half-asleep mumbo-jumbo, but now I’m wishing I hadn’t.

I grabbed him an outfit straight from the dryer, worried the clothes in his closet had been doused in the stench and rushed him out the door to the bus stop. I had to find the source as fast as possible.

I globed Vicks under my nose and the hunt began. The second entrance was no better than the first. I was only in the room for 30 seconds before I had to puke. With an empty stomach, I tried again.

Aside from the disheveled bed, nothing seemed out of place. No sign of a busted sewage pipe, no left out food, nothing. I dug through his closet, his drawers, and desk. As I knelt down to check under his bed, the intensity of the smell became increasingly overwhelming. It was the carpet. Had I been moving faster; I would have laid my head against it to look under the bed. The thought of whatever caused the smell on the carpet touching my skin made me squirm. There weren’t any stains or spots that I could see, but I was sure of it.

I pulled out my carpet shampooer and went to work. The hum of the machine calmed me. As I pulled the machine back, the dark water settled, small oil cells forming. Yet the beige carpet looked exactly the same as before and yet the water…? It just didn’t make sense. I dumped the container and set back to do them again. It took 4 passes before the water was clear. The inescapable putridity from before was gone.

At the dinner table that night, I mentioned the carpet to Tommy. His eyes shifted and his cheeks blushed, his fork making soft circles across his plate. I was completely sure he was hiding something. After some gentle pressing, Tommy sighed, “It’s Danny. He’s my age and he’s my friend. He said he has to sleep outside and that’s not right. It’s cold out there mom!”

I tried my best not to allow the shock I felt inside escape onto my face. A boy – either abused, homeless, or quite possibly both – had snuck into my son’s room the night before. That awful smell was from another person. I cleared my throat trying to push the anguish back down before I spoke.

“If Danny comes back tonight, how about you wake me up and he can come in the front door this time. We can get him cleaned up, and maybe he’s hungry? We can save him some leftovers*.” And call the police somewhere in between all that*, but Tommy didn’t need to know that part. “It’ll be like a sleep over.”

Tommy grinned, “A sleep over! That would be so great! He could sleep in bed with me this time instead of on the floor! He was all wet last time; I think that’s why he was so stinky!”

I grimaced internally. This poor boy. What had he been going through?

That night after Tommy had fallen asleep, I opened his door across from mine and waited. I vowed I wouldn’t sleep at all if that’s what it took, but the day had worn me down. At some point I must have dozed off because the sound of Tommy screeching yanked me from my bed.

The foul odor was back with a vengeance, Tommy was hysterical, and there was no other boy in sight. Still crying, I snatched him up, blankets included, and slammed the door before examining him. Tiny fingerprint bruises were forming along his forearm, but worse, his arm hung at an odd angle.

Tommy quietly cried the entire way to the emergency room. I tried to ask him what had happened, but he only cried harder.

When we finally got to the back room, the nurse explained that Tommy had a dislocated shoulder. As I held him while the doctor popped his shoulder back into place, he felt so small. After, when asked what had happened, I had no answers. The nurse glanced towards me suspiciously before asking Tommy if he’d be okay with me stepping out of the room for a minute. My jaw nearly hit the floor. There was no world where I’d ever hurt my son, but I knew refusal would only make her more suspicious. I took a seat in the chair outside the door. After a few minutes, the nurse asked me to come back in. “Has your son mentioned a boy named Danny?”

My voice shook, “He has. I haven’t met him. My son says Danny is his age, I think he is either homeless or abused. My son said he’s been sneaking him into his room at night to give him a place to sleep. I only caught on yesterday morning because of the smell. The boy reeks. I had asked Tommy to come to me if Danny came to the window again. I wanted to try to get the boy some help,” I finished weakly. The boy I’d earlier been desperate to help had done this to my son. I just knew it.

“Tommy says Danny came to the window again tonight and he let him in. He told Danny he wanted to wake you up for a sleepover and Danny became angry. We’re required to file a report on things of this nature. Someone will be in touch.”

The drive home was quiet. Just before we pulled into the driveway, Tommy’s voice was as small as he’d felt in my arms at the hospital, “Mom, he said he wanted to take me home with him instead. That we could have a sleepover there. He said he lives in the lake.”

Tommy slept in my bed that night, but I didn’t sleep at all. After making sure every window and door were locked, I was left with my thoughts. Lived in the lake? My mind wandered to the lake in our backyard. Tommy hadn’t given any kind of sign that he’d been afraid of the lake before. And this wasn’t a nightmare. The smell and injuries had proven that. Something tickled my brain. Something just out of reach.

I hopped on the internet and searched for ‘Danny 10 years old *our town*’. The first search result gave me my answers. Danny Sanders, 10 years old, missing. There wasn’t much information in the article, but then again, the police didn’t seem to know very much. There was a picture of Danny. Dark brown hair hung across his eyes as he smiled. And just below it, a video.

“At 7:15 AM this morning, the Sanders’ family discovered their son, Danny, missing from his bed. Police are asking the public to keep an eye out for this boy” – the same photo of Danny flashed across the screen, “and if anyone has any information to please come forward. And now a word from Mrs. Sanders,” The anchor’s concerned face lingered on the screen for a moment before the feed transferred over. I nearly screamed as the video continued. “My son Danny is my world. My only son,” This woman was sobbing in front of my house! “Please, we just want him back safe. He’s a good boy. Please!” The last word clipped short as I closed the page.

I think I know where Danny is “sleeping” now. And I think he wants my son.