My husband shook us awake in the dead of night. “Up. Now. Get to the backyard.”
For a second I thought I was still dreaming. The room was pitch black except for the clock glowing 2:17 a.m., and Mark’s voice had an edge to it that snapped me fully alert.
“What’s going on?” I whispered.
Our five-year-old, Emma, was already crying, clutching my arm, her tiny body trembling. “Mommy, I’m scared…”
“There’s no time,” Mark said tightly. “We have to move. Now.”
He lifted Emma into his arms while I grabbed the nearest sweater and followed him down the hallway, barefoot. The cold floor shocked me awake as we rushed through the silent house. The back door creaked as he pushed it open, and a blast of freezing air hit us.
He didn’t stop. He pulled us across the yard and into the dense bushes by the fence. Branches scraped my skin, damp leaves soaking through my pajama pants. I opened my mouth to ask questions, but Mark pressed a finger to his lips.
“Quiet.”
His whole body was rigid, like he was bracing for something terrible.
Emma buried her face against me. I held her close, trying to calm her, even as my own heart pounded in confusion.
Then I heard it.
A car engine.
Slow. Careful. Crawling down our street.
Mark shifted slightly, peering through the leaves toward the house. I followed his gaze.
