When you hang up, the rain feels colder. Not because the weather changed, but because your brain did.
You’re standing there, alone, while your son is behind a locked door, and every second feels like a betrayal.
You do the only thing you can do without ruining everything: you watch.
You watch the porch. You watch the dark windows. You watch for movement in the curtains, for a silhouette, for the smallest sign that someone is making plans.
And you remember the barefoot girl’s face, the way she whispered, Don’t say I told you. That’s not how kids talk when they’re just telling stories. That’s how kids talk when they live with consequences.
Minutes crawl.
Then you see it: the front curtain upstairs shifts, barely, like someone adjusted their stance.
Your chest tightens.
A door opens somewhere behind the house, not the front door. You hear a hinge complain.
You move, careful, staying on the sidewalk so you’re not the guy creeping through shadows. You angle your body, trying to see beyond the fence line without stepping onto the property.
