Families. Couples. Laughter. Raised glasses.
Then the restaurant door burst open so violently that several heads turned at once.
Two little girls ran inside.
They were twins. About seven years old. Matching floral dresses, hair completely disheveled, as if they’d run through a storm. Their faces were soaked with tears—but what made Ethan’s stomach drop wasn’t the crying.
It was the dirt caked onto their knees.
The scrapes along their arms.
And the red stain smeared across one girl’s neck.
The twins scanned the restaurant like shipwreck survivors searching for a single piece of driftwood. Their eyes jumped from table to table—desperate—until they locked onto Ethan.
And they ran straight toward him.
“Are you… are you Ethan?” one of them gasped, barely able to breathe.
Ethan shot to his feet. His chair screeched against the floor.
“Yes—yes, that’s me. What happened? Are you okay? Where’s your mom?”
The other twin grabbed his arm with both hands. Her small fingers dug into his skin with a strength no child should have.
“Our mom… she was supposed to meet you here,” she sobbed. “But some men came to our house… they kicked the door in… they hurt her…”