“Please,” he insisted, tightening his hold just for a second before letting go. “Don’t go home. Stay somewhere else. Tomorrow, I’ll show you this.”
He tapped the front pocket of his jacket. Something inside was flat, rectangular, wrapped in plastic.
A cold ripple slid through me. People walked around us as though nothing unusual was happening, but the world felt tilted.
“Harold… tell me what’s happening.”
He shook his head. “Tomorrow,” he said again. “Just promise me you won’t sleep at your house tonight.”
His cracked, pleading voice lodged itself in my chest. And standing on those library steps, I felt my ordinary life shift into something unfamiliar.
I told myself it was absurd to take warning from a man who barely had enough to eat. But his urgency followed me to the bus stop, onto the bus, and all the way to my neighborhood. His words kept echoing: Don’t go home tonight.
When I reached my street, my heart was thudding. My house looked normal—dark, quiet, full of memories and grief. I stood there for a long moment, my key cold in my hand. Then, without understanding why, I turned away and walked to a small motel a couple of blocks over.