It wasn’t the kind of dramatic whisper children make when they play. It was one that came from a place more mature than his six years: sharp, urgent, terrified.
I was in the kitchen rinsing the breakfast dishes. The house still smelled of coffee and the lemon cleaner I used when I wanted to feel like everything was under control. My husband, Derek, had kissed me on the forehead at the door thirty minutes earlier, dragging his suitcase behind him, saying he’d be back Sunday night.
He seemed almost cheerful.
Lily stood in the doorway in her socks, clutching the hem of her pajama top as if trying to stay whole.
“What?” I laughed softly, reflexively, because my brain was trying to protect itself. “Why are we going to run?”
She shook her head forcefully. Her eyes were bright.
“We don’t have time,” she whispered again. “We have to leave the house right now.”
My stomach clenched.
