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.

Atlanta wore a different face at night, softer at the edges, shadows pooling where certainty used to live. Attorney Okafor drove without music, both hands steady on the wheel, eyes flicking to the mirrors every few seconds. Kenzo sat in the back seat in borrowed clothes, his dinosaur backpack clutched tight against his chest like a promise he intended to keep.

No one spoke.

Every sound felt too loud. Tires on asphalt. A distant siren. The low hum of the engine.

When we turned into our neighborhood, the streetlights cast long, broken shadows across the pavement. The caution tape was still up, fluttering lazily, yellow against black. The smell hit first. Smoke, wet and bitter, clinging to the air like it refused to leave.

Attorney Okafor parked two blocks away.

“Twenty minutes,” she said quietly. “I stay outside. If I make noise, you run. No hesitation.”

I nodded, my throat too tight for words.

Kenzo slipped his hand into mine. It was warm. Solid. Real.

We moved through the narrow path behind the houses, over the low wall, our shoes crunching softly on gravel. The backyard looked smaller than I remembered, scorched patches of grass lit faintly by moonlight.