You crouch down to his level and gently hold his face.
“Listen to me,” you whisper. “No matter what happens, you stay behind me. Okay?”
Lily nods so loudly her hair bounces, and you hate that she understands.
Inside the pantry, the air smells of cereal and canned tomatoes.
Your fingers tremble as you search for emergency contacts, but your cell phone is a shiny, useless brick.
You press your ear against the door and hold your breath.
The sound returns.
Closer now.
A soft dragging on the floor, as if something heavy were being pulled.
Lily’s mouth opens to cry, but you put a finger to your lips.
She bites down on her pajama sleeve to stifle the sound.
Your eyes are glued to the emergency folder you grabbed instinctively.
Among insurance policies and birth certificates is something your mother insisted you keep: a printed list of numbers.
The old-fashioned kind. Because paper doesn’t lose its signal.
You remember Derek laughing.
