Frank Harrison’s Race Against Time and Denial
The Message That Changed Everything
The snow fell in thick, determined flakes across Frank Harrison’s neighborhood that Thanksgiving afternoon, blanketing everything in deceptive purity. Inside his quiet house—too quiet since Martha died, every room echoing with her absence—Frank sat at the kitchen table nursing his third cup of coffee and trying to convince himself that being alone on Thanksgiving was somehow acceptable, somehow survivable.
The house felt cavernous without her. Martha had been the gravitational center of their family for forty-three years, the one who orchestrated holidays, who remembered birthdays, who noticed when phone calls grew shorter or smiles became forced. She’d been the emotional intelligence of their marriage, reading people and situations with uncanny accuracy while Frank, by his own admission, tended toward the oblivious side of things.
“You’re a good man, Frank,” Martha used to tell him, usually after he’d missed some obvious social cue or family tension. “But you see what you want to see. Sometimes you need to look harder at what’s actually there.”
Six months after her death from pancreatic cancer—six months that felt simultaneously like six years and six minutes—Frank was learning just how blind he’d been, just how much he’d relied on Martha to navigate the complex emotional currents of their family.
His phone buzzed on the table, dancing slightly against the wood. A text message from Brenda Morrison, his neighbor three houses down, a woman whose kindness was matched only by her insatiable appetite for gossip. Frank had learned to take her information with generous helpings of salt, but she was reliable about one thing: she always knew what was happening in the neighborhood.
Frank, Happy Thanksgiving! Just saw a couple of police cars over at the Miller’s house down the street. Brenda says it’s another one of those domestic situations. So much family worry this time of year. Hope you’re staying warm!
Frank stared at the message, reading it three times, his coffee forgotten and growing cold. The casual mention of “domestic situations” and “family worries” landed differently than Brenda probably intended, triggering something that had been gnawing at Frank’s consciousness for months, something he’d been actively avoiding because acknowledging it would require action he wasn’t sure he was capable of taking.
His daughter Leona. Her husband Wilbur. And most troublingly, his eighteen-year-old grandson Amos.
The signs had been accumulating like snow on a rooftop—individually insignificant, collectively dangerous, always one storm away from catastrophic collapse. Frank had noticed them, filed them away, rationalized them, and ultimately ignored them because the alternative was too terrible to contemplate.
Amos, once a loud, funny kid who never stopped talking, who could do impressions of every teacher at school, who’d been the life of every family gathering, had grown progressively quieter over the past year. Their weekly phone calls—a tradition Frank had maintained religiously since Martha died—had transformed from genuine conversations into awkward exchanges where Frank did most of the talking while Amos offered monosyllabic responses.
“How’s school?” “Fine.” “How’s baseball going?” “Okay.” “Everything good at home?” “Yeah.”
The answers were always the same, delivered in a flat monotone that bore no resemblance to the vibrant boy Frank remembered. Frank had attributed it to teenage moodiness, to the natural process of an eighteen-year-old pulling away from family, establishing independence, becoming his own person.
But Martha’s voice, that persistent echo in his memory, whispered otherwise.
A month ago, Frank had driven down to Cincinnati for what he’d told himself was a casual visit but what had really been a wellness check prompted by increasingly worried calls from Martha’s sister, Aunt Claire, who lived near Leona and had her own concerns about the household.
The visit had been… off. That was the only word Frank could think of to describe it. The atmosphere in the house felt brittle, tense, like everyone was performing a play but had forgotten their lines. Leona had been jumpy, startling at small sounds, her laugh too loud and too forced. Amos had been withdrawn, spending most of Frank’s visit in his room, emerging only when directly summoned.
And then there was Wilbur.
Wilbur Crane had married Leona three years ago, sweeping her off her feet after her divorce from Amos’s father. Wilbur was a big man—six-foot-three, two hundred forty pounds, broad-shouldered from his work as a construction foreman. He had a booming voice that filled rooms, a hearty laugh that seemed jovial until you noticed it never quite reached his eyes, and a handshake that felt more like a test of strength than a greeting.
During that visit, Frank had noticed how the entire household seemed to orbit around Wilbur’s moods. When Wilbur’s pickup truck crunched into the driveway after work, Leona would immediately tense, checking her appearance in the hallway mirror, ensuring dinner was exactly on time. Amos would disappear to his room or find urgent homework that needed completing.
And there had been the bruise.
Frank had seen it when Amos reached for a glass in the kitchen—a fading yellow-green mark on the boy’s cheekbone, about the size of a quarter. When Frank had asked about it, Leona had jumped in before Amos could answer.
“Baseball practice,” she’d said quickly, too quickly. “He took a bad throw, didn’t you, Amos?”
Amos had nodded, not meeting Frank’s eyes, even though Frank knew for a fact that baseball season had ended three weeks earlier.
Frank had mentioned it to Martha—this was just days before she’d taken a turn for the worse, before the cancer had accelerated its attack—and she’d looked at him with those knowing eyes that saw through all his rationalizations.
“Frank, that boy is being hurt. I can see it. You need to do something.”
“You don’t know that, Martha. Kids get bruises all the time. And Leona seems happy with Wilbur. We can’t just—”
“Don’t you see it, Frank?” Martha had interrupted, her voice weak but insistent, each word an effort. “The boy is walking on eggshells. They all are. Something is very wrong in that house.”
Frank had brushed it aside, told her she was seeing problems where none existed, that she was projecting her own anxieties onto a situation she didn’t fully understand. He’d been defensive, dismissive, eager to avoid confronting something that would require difficult action.
Three days later, Martha had slipped into the coma from which she’d never wake. Her last coherent words to Frank had been about Amos: “Promise me you’ll watch out for him. Promise me, Frank.”
He’d promised, holding her hand, tears streaming down his face. But then she’d died, and Frank had been drowning in his own grief, barely capable of taking care of himself, let alone investigating potential abuse in his daughter’s household.
Six months of avoidance. Six months of telling himself he was overreacting, that Martha had been confused by medication and pain, that surely Leona—his little girl, the daughter he’d raised to be strong and independent—wouldn’t allow anyone to hurt her son.
Now, staring at Brenda’s text message about “domestic situations” and “family worry,” Frank felt something crack inside his carefully constructed denial. Martha’s voice, clear as if she were sitting beside him: “Don’t you see it, Frank?”
This time, he couldn’t look away.
The Seventy-Mile Journey Through Fear
Frank’s hands shook as he pulled on his heavy winter coat, the one Martha had bought him two Christmases ago, the one that still carried a faint trace of her perfume from when she’d worn it that last winter. He grabbed his keys, his wallet, his phone, moving on autopilot while his conscious mind raced through worst-case scenarios.
He was probably overreacting. He’d drive the seventy miles to Cincinnati, show up at Leona’s door, and they’d be surprised but happy to see him. They’d invite him in for turkey and stuffing, Amos would be fine—moody maybe, but fine—and Frank would feel foolish for his paranoia.
But what if he wasn’t overreacting? What if Martha had been right? What if every instinct that had been screaming at him for months was accurate, and his grandson was in danger?
The drive down I-75 was treacherous. The snow had intensified, reducing visibility and making the highway slick. Frank’s truck—a 2012 Ford F-150 that had over 180,000 miles on it but still ran like a dream—handled well, but he found himself gripping the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles went white.
He tried calling Leona. The call went straight to voicemail. He tried again fifteen minutes later. Voicemail. A third time, with the same result.
On Thanksgiving Day, when families were supposed to be gathered around tables, sharing food and gratitude, his daughter wasn’t answering her phone. The silence felt ominous, significant, wrong.
Frank turned up the radio, needing noise to drown out his spiraling thoughts. Led Zeppelin’s “When the Levee Breaks” poured from the speakers, Robert Plant’s voice wailing about rising waters and impending disaster. The song felt prophetic, a soundtrack to something terrible about to be revealed.
On the passenger seat sat a gift bag he’d prepared days ago, before Leona had told him not to come for Thanksgiving (her excuse had been that they were keeping it small this year, just the three of them, but Frank had heard something in her voice—fear, maybe, or resignation). Inside the bag was a high-quality leather baseball glove and a collection of vintage Marvel comics Frank had found at an estate sale. Even at eighteen, Amos still loved baseball and comics, those twin passions that had defined his childhood.
Frank had bought the gifts as a way to maintain connection, to remind his grandson that someone saw him, someone cared, someone was paying attention. Now, staring at the bag while snow swirled across the highway, Frank realized the gifts were also a talisman, a physical manifestation of his need to believe everything was fine, that you could repair a relationship with thoughtful presents rather than difficult confrontations.
The miles ticked by—mile marker 47, then 38, then 25. The closer Frank got to Cincinnati, the tighter the knot in his stomach became. He found himself making bargains with God or the universe or whatever force might be listening: Let Amos be okay. Let me be wrong about everything. Let this just be an old man’s paranoid fears.
But Martha’s voice wouldn’t stop: “The boy is walking on eggshells. Don’t you see it, Frank?”
This time, he was determined to see.
The Perfect Suburban Disguise
Leona’s neighborhood looked like a Norman Rockwell painting brought to life—rows of two-story colonial homes with well-maintained lawns now covered in pristine snow, holiday wreaths hanging on front doors, warm golden light spilling from windows onto the white landscape. It was the American Dream realized in brick and vinyl siding, a place where nothing bad ever happened because the very aesthetic of the neighborhood seemed to prohibit it.
This was the insidious power of the suburban facade, Frank would later realize. The neat lawns and festive decorations served as camouflage for whatever darkness might be festering inside those picture-perfect homes. No one wanted to believe that abuse or violence or cruelty could exist in a neighborhood where people obsessed over their Christmas light displays and maintained their property values with religious fervor.
Frank turned onto Oakwood Drive and immediately spotted Leona’s house—a colonial painted a cheerful blue with white trim, smoke curling from the chimney, Wilbur’s massive pickup truck parked in the driveway next to Leona’s sedan. Every visual cue screamed normalcy, prosperity, contentment.
Frank pulled his truck to the curb three houses down, his engine still running, his hands still gripping the steering wheel. For a long moment, he just sat there, warring with himself.
Turn around. Don’t go looking for trouble. They’ll think you’re crazy, showing up unannounced on Thanksgiving after Leona specifically told you not to come. You’re going to embarrass yourself, embarrass them, create a scene over nothing.
But then he thought of that bruise on Amos’s face, the hollowness in his grandson’s voice during phone calls, Leona’s inexplicable jumpiness, Martha’s deathbed warning. He thought of Brenda’s text about domestic situations and family worry.
He killed the engine, grabbed the gift bag, and stepped out into the biting cold. The temperature had dropped to the low twenties, and a cruel wind whipped around corners and through gaps in fences. Frank pulled his coat tighter and started up the shoveled walkway toward the front door.
That’s when he saw it—a sight that would be seared into his memory forever, that would appear in his nightmares for years to come, that would fundamentally alter his understanding of what his daughter had become and what his grandson had been enduring.
The Boy in the Cold
There, huddled on the top step of the front porch, sat his grandson.
Amos was wearing only a thin long-sleeved t-shirt and jeans. No coat. No hat. No gloves. His arms were wrapped around his body in a futile attempt to preserve warmth, and he was shivering so violently that his entire frame seemed to vibrate. His face was pale—not just pale but bloodless, a terrible grayish-white that spoke of genuine hypothermia. His lips were blue, actually blue, the color of someone whose body was shutting down from exposure.
Behind him, visible through the front window, Frank could see into the dining room. The table was set with fine china and crystal glasses. A massive turkey sat in the center, golden-brown and perfect. He could hear laughter—Wilbur’s booming voice, unmistakable even through the glass.
Inside: warmth, food, celebration, family.
Outside: this boy, literally left out in the cold, shivering on the porch while the people who were supposed to love and protect him enjoyed their Thanksgiving dinner.
The juxtaposition was so stark, so deliberately cruel, that Frank’s brain struggled to process it. This wasn’t neglect. This wasn’t an accident. This was calculated, intentional punishment designed to cause maximum suffering—both physical and psychological.
For a moment, Frank was paralyzed by rage so pure and complete it felt like being electrocuted. Every muscle in his body locked, his vision narrowing to that single point—his grandson, freezing, abandoned, tortured.
Then instinct overrode shock.
“Amos!” Frank’s voice came out strangled, barely recognizable as his own.
The boy’s head snapped up. His eyes—those same green eyes he’d inherited from Martha, Frank’s connection to his lost wife—went wide with shock, then filled with a relief so profound, so desperate, that it broke something fundamental inside Frank’s chest.
Amos tried to stand but his legs wouldn’t cooperate, stiff from cold and exposure. He opened his mouth but his teeth were chattering too violently to form words.
Frank covered the distance in three strides, taking the porch steps two at a time. He dropped the gift bag and wrapped his arms around his grandson, pulling the boy against his chest. Amos felt like ice, solid and cold, his body temperature dangerously low.
“What are you doing out here?” Frank demanded, his voice shaking with fury and fear. “Where’s your coat? How long have you been out here?”
Amos buried his face in Frank’s coat, his whole body shaking. He tried to speak but couldn’t manage anything coherent through the violent shivers.
Frank pulled back slightly, gripping his grandson’s shoulders, looking into those traumatized eyes. “Come on, let’s get you inside right now.”
He turned toward the door, one arm still around Amos’s shoulders, his other hand reaching for the doorknob.
“No.” The word was barely a whisper, raw and broken, but it stopped Frank cold. “Grandpa, no. I’m… I’m not allowed.”
The words landed like physical blows. Not allowed. Not allowed inside his own home. On Thanksgiving. While his family ate dinner mere feet away, separated by nothing but a door and the complete absence of human decency.
Frank’s vision went red around the edges. His hands, still gripping Amos’s shoulders, began to shake with suppressed rage. In his sixty-six years on earth, through a career as a high school history teacher, through raising two daughters, through all the challenges and frustrations and difficulties of life, Frank Harrison had never felt hatred as pure as what he felt in that moment toward Wilbur Crane.
“The hell you’re not,” Frank growled. He didn’t knock. He didn’t ring the doorbell. He twisted the knob—unlocked, because why would they lock it when the only person who needed to be kept out was already trapped outside?—and shoved the door open with his shoulder, half-carrying his freezing grandson into the warmth of the entryway.
The blast of heat from inside felt obscene after the brutal cold of the porch. Frank’s glasses immediately fogged up, but he could see enough: the picture-perfect Thanksgiving scene, the domestic harmony, the holiday cheer.
All of it a lie. All of it concealing monstrous cruelty.
Inside the House of Horrors
The scene inside the house could have been pulled from a magazine spread about perfect American Thanksgivings. The dining room table was elaborately set with what looked like expensive china—white with gold trim, the kind of formal dishware people only brought out for special occasions. Crystal glasses caught the light from the chandelier overhead. The turkey was magnificent, professionally browned, sitting on an antique serving platter surrounded by traditional sides: mashed potatoes, green bean casserole, cranberry sauce in a cut-glass bowl, dinner rolls arranged in a linen-lined basket.
Leona was emerging from the kitchen carrying yet another dish—sweet potato casserole with marshmallow topping—her face arranged in a strained smile that didn’t reach her eyes. She wore a festive sweater and dress slacks, her hair carefully styled, her makeup perfect. She looked like the idealized version of a suburban housewife hosting an important dinner.
Wilbur sat at the head of the table like a king surveying his domain. He was a massive man, even sitting down—broad shoulders, thick neck, large hands wrapped around a beer bottle. He wore a polo shirt that strained slightly across his chest and khaki pants that probably cost more than Frank’s entire outfit. The television in the corner was playing football, volume low, and Wilbur was laughing at something, his voice filling the room with false joviality.
They both froze when they saw Frank and Amos.
The transformation in the room’s atmosphere was instantaneous and total—the temperature seemed to drop twenty degrees, the air suddenly thick with tension, all pretense of holiday warmth evaporating like morning frost under direct sunlight.
Leona’s smile vanished, replaced by naked panic. The dish in her hands wavered dangerously. “Dad! What… what are you doing here?”
Her voice was high-pitched, strained, the voice of someone caught in the act, someone whose carefully constructed facade had just been breached. She wasn’t asking out of pleasant surprise at an unexpected visit. She was asking because Frank’s presence here, now, with Amos, represented the collapse of whatever fiction she’d been maintaining.
Wilbur’s reaction was more controlled but infinitely more threatening. His expression hardened in an instant, his jaw clenching, his eyes going flat and cold. He rose from his chair with deliberate slowness, his considerable size seeming to expand to fill the entire room. When he spoke, his voice carried a dangerous edge barely concealed beneath false confusion.
“What the hell is going on here?” He wasn’t looking at Frank. He was staring directly at Amos, and the look in his eyes made Frank instinctively step between his grandson and this man, shielding the boy with his own body. “I told you to stay outside, you little punk. Did I give you permission to come in?”
The casual cruelty of it—the complete lack of shame or attempt at justification, the open admission that yes, he had deliberately left a child outside to freeze—struck Frank like a hammer.
“He was freezing to death,” Frank said, his voice dangerously low, the kind of quiet that preceded explosions. He kept himself positioned between Wilbur and Amos, one hand still on his grandson’s shoulder, feeling the boy’s violent shivering through the fabric of his thin shirt. “His lips were blue. Blue, Leona. Do you understand what that means? That’s hypothermia. That’s life-threatening.”
He looked at his daughter—really looked at her, seeing past the perfect hair and makeup to the terrified woman underneath—and his voice rose to a roar that shook the festive decorations on the walls. “What is wrong with you?”
Leona’s face crumpled like paper being crushed. She looked from Frank to Wilbur to Amos, her expression cycling through fear, shame, and desperate rationalization. When she spoke, her voice was small, pleading, the voice of someone who’d spent so long justifying the unjustifiable that she no longer recognized it as abnormal.
“It was just for a little while, Dad. Just until he learned his lesson. He was being disrespectful during dinner prep. He talked back. Wilbur was just… he was teaching him respect. Teaching him that there are consequences for behavior.”
The words sounded rehearsed, like a script she’d memorized, like something she’d told herself so many times she’d almost started to believe it. But even as she spoke them, Frank could see she didn’t quite believe them herself—there was a flicker of recognition in her eyes, a momentary acknowledgment that what she was saying was insane.
“A lesson?” Frank’s voice cracked with incredulous rage. “You call leaving a child outside in twenty-degree weather a lesson? This is abuse, Leona! This is torture! What’s next? Breaking his fingers to teach him about kitchen safety? Burning him to teach him about fire hazards?”
“Now you listen here, old man.” Wilbur’s voice dropped to a snarl, his facade of civility completely abandoned. He took a step forward, his size and physical presence meant to intimidate, to dominate. “You don’t get to waltz into my house and tell me how to handle my stepson. This is my home, my rules, my family. You got no business being here, no business interfering.”
“He’s my grandson!” Frank shot back, standing his ground despite being six inches shorter and eighty pounds lighter than Wilbur. The rage coursing through his system had burned away any fear. “And I’m not leaving him here with you for one more second. Amos, go upstairs and pack a bag. You’re coming home with me.”
“He’s not going anywhere,” Wilbur said, moving to block the stairway, his massive frame completely filling the space.
And that’s when Amos, who’d been silent and trembling since Frank had found him on the porch, who’d spent who knows how long being terrorized and controlled and broken down, found his voice.
“No.” The word was quiet but clear, cutting through the tension like a knife. “I’m going with Grandpa.”
For the first time in what Frank suspected had been years, Amos looked Wilbur directly in the eye. And in that gaze was something that hadn’t been there before—defiance, strength, the beginning of reclaimed dignity. The spell of intimidation that had kept him silent and compliant was beginning to crack.
The standoff lasted for an eternity compressed into seconds. Wilbur’s face turned an alarming shade of red, his hands clenching into fists, his entire body radiating barely controlled violence. Frank could see him calculating, weighing options, considering whether the satisfaction of physically preventing Amos from leaving was worth whatever consequences might follow.
Frank tensed, ready to fight if necessary, ready to use his own body to protect his grandson, knowing he’d lose but not caring, because some things were worth losing for.
Then Leona spoke, her voice breaking. “Let him go, Wilbur.”
She was crying now, mascara running down her cheeks, her perfect hostess facade completely shattered. She looked at her father with eyes full of shame and fear and something that might have been relief. “Just… let them go. Please.”
Wilbur glared at her with such contempt that Frank wondered how many times Leona had been on the receiving end of similar treatment, how much of herself she’d lost trying to appease this man, how long she’d been a prisoner in her own carefully decorated home.
Finally, with a sound that was half snarl and half curse, Wilbur stepped aside, his movements sharp and aggressive, every line of his body promising future consequences for this defiance.
“Go,” Frank said to Amos, his voice gentle now. “Pack whatever you need. Be quick.”
Amos moved with remarkable speed for someone who’d been moments from hypothermia, his survival instincts overriding physical discomfort. He took the stairs two at a time, disappearing into what Frank assumed was his bedroom.
The wait felt interminable. Frank stood in the entryway, one eye on the stairs, one eye on Wilbur, who remained menacingly present, radiating threat. Leona stood frozen by the dining table, one hand covering her mouth, the other clutching the back of a chair like it was the only thing keeping her upright.
Three minutes later—though it felt like thirty—Amos reappeared at the top of the stairs carrying a backpack that looked hastily packed, bulging with whatever essentials he’d been able to grab in his panicked flight. He came down the stairs quickly but carefully, still looking at Wilbur like someone navigating around a dangerous animal.
Frank put a protective arm around his grandson’s shoulders, feeling the boy’s body still trembling—from cold, from adrenaline, from the enormity of what was happening. He steered Amos toward the door, reaching for the knob.
At the threshold, something made Frank pause. He looked back at his daughter, this woman he’d raised, this person he thought he’d known. Her face was streaked with tears, her perfect makeup ruined, her festive sweater somehow looking grotesque now in context of what it had been concealing.
“I’ll call you tomorrow, Leona,” Frank said, his voice devoid of warmth but not quite cold—it was the voice of someone who’d just witnessed something that required processing, who needed time to decide what came next. “We have a lot to talk about.”
He didn’t say goodbye to Wilbur. Didn’t acknowledge him at all. The man wasn’t worth the breath it would take to speak his name.
Then Frank walked out the door, leading his grandson away from the house of horrors disguised as suburban normalcy, back into the cold winter air that now felt clean and honest compared to the poisonous atmosphere they were leaving behind.
The gift bag sat forgotten on the porch where Frank had dropped it, festive wrapping and thoughtful presents rendered completely irrelevant by the reality of what Amos had actually needed: not baseball gloves or comic books, but rescue.
The Silent Drive to Safety
Frank helped Amos into the passenger seat of his truck, buckled him in like he used to when the boy was small, then cranked the heat to maximum. He pulled the emergency blanket from behind the seat—the one Martha had insisted he keep there “just in case”—and wrapped it around his grandson’s shoulders.
Amos sat silent, shaking, staring straight ahead at nothing.
Frank pulled away from the curb without looking back at the house, without checking to see if Wilbur or Leona were watching from the windows. He focused on driving, on navigating the snow-covered streets, on getting them both away from that place and back to safety.
They drove in silence for twenty minutes before Amos finally spoke, his voice small and broken.
“I’m sorry, Grandpa.”
Frank’s hands tightened on the steering wheel. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”
“I should have called you. Should have told someone. But I thought… I thought if I just tried harder, if I was better, if I didn’t make him angry…”
His voice broke, and he started crying—deep, gut-wrenching sobs that seemed to come from somewhere beyond grief, from that place where trauma lives.
Frank pulled over into a gas station parking lot, killed the engine, and pulled his grandson into an embrace. Amos clung to him like a drowning person to a life preserver, crying into Frank’s shoulder, releasing what must have been months or years of accumulated fear and pain and shame.
“You did nothing wrong,” Frank whispered fiercely. “Nothing. This was not your fault. None of this was ever your fault.”
They sat there for a long time, Frank holding his grandson while the boy cried, while the heater hummed, while snow continued to fall around them.
Eventually, the sobs subsided. Amos pulled back, wiping his eyes with the sleeve of his shirt. “Grandma knew,” he said quietly. “She tried to tell me once that if I ever needed help, if things got bad, I should call her. But then she got sick, and I couldn’t… I couldn’t burden her when she was dying.”
“She knew,” Frank confirmed, his voice thick with emotion. “She tried to tell me too. And I’m sorry, Amos. I’m so sorry I didn’t listen sooner. I’m sorry I didn’t see what was happening. I’m sorry I left you there for so long.”
Amos shook his head. “You came. That’s what matters. You came when I needed you.”
They drove the rest of the way home in comfortable silence, the kind that comes from shared understanding, from crisis survived. When they finally pulled into Frank’s driveway, when they walked into the warm, quiet house that still smelled faintly of Martha’s perfume, Amos looked around like a man seeing sanctuary for the first time.
“Welcome home,” Frank said.
And for the first time in what must have been a very long time, Amos smiled.
The road ahead would be difficult—police reports, child services, custody battles, therapy, healing that would take years. But tonight, on this Thanksgiving evening, Frank Harrison had his grandson safe under his roof.
