After my husband boarded a plane for a business trip, my six-year-old suddenly tugged my hand and whispered, “Mom… we can’t go back home. This morning I heard Dad on the phone, talking about something that involves us—and it didn’t sound right.” So we didn’t go back.

The sound of those locks clicking into place did something to my nervous system. Not relief exactly, but a small loosening. Like my body had been braced for impact and finally found a wall that might hold.

The office smelled like paper and coffee. File boxes stacked against metal cabinets. Framed degrees from Howard and Emory lined the walls, and photos of civil rights marches hung beside them. The building felt like history and grit, a place where people fought to be believed.

She nodded toward a worn couch. “Put the boy there. Blanket’s on the chair.”

I lifted Kenzo gently. He stirred but didn’t wake fully. When I laid him down, his fingers curled around the edge of the blanket like he was grabbing onto something solid.

Attorney Okafor poured coffee into chipped mugs without asking if I wanted any. She handed one to me and pointed to the chair across from her desk.

“Sit,” she said. “Tell me everything. Start at the airport.”

So I did.

The words came out in jagged pieces at first. The brightness of the terminal. Quasi’s smile. Kenzo’s whisper. The van. The key. The gasoline. The fire climbing up the walls.