« Seven? »
She nodded.
« The oldest is 16. The youngest just turned five. »
« That sounds exhausting. »
« It is. »
She lowered her voice.
« You’ll hear the whistle every morning. »
The next morning, I understood exactly what she meant. At precisely five o’clock, a sharp whistle cut through the quiet neighborhood. I rolled over, expecting to hear children groaning or complaining.
Instead, complete silence followed.
Curiosity pulled me out of bed.