She didn’t walk the way she usually did when she left his house—shoulders straight, polite smile, a soft “good night.” Tonight, her worn canvas bag was pressed tight against her chest, her steps fast and alert, her head turning slightly as if she expected trouble at every corner. Something in her posture felt wrong. Something unsettled him.
Andrew told himself he’d turn back. He didn’t.
He followed her through the streets of Tampa, Florida, watching the city slowly change. The clean sidewalks and glowing storefronts disappeared, replaced by cracked pavement, flickering streetlights, graffiti-scarred walls. The air smelled like damp concrete and old smoke. When Maria slipped into a narrow path beneath an overpass and vanished from sight, Andrew parked and stepped out of his car, heart pounding.
“Just one minute,” he muttered.
Then he heard laughter.
Small, fragile laughter that didn’t belong in a place like this.
Between shadows and pieces of cardboard tied together with fraying rope stood a makeshift shack, barely tall enough to stand in. Two children ran toward Maria as soon as they saw her.