My husband Caleb Dawson went pale so fast I thought he’d swallowed his tongue.
One second we were just another family on the highway outside Riverside, California with coffee in the cupholder and snack wrappers multiplying like rabbits, and the next second he was staring straight ahead like the windshield had turned into a screen showing our funeral.
“Turn the car around,” Caleb whispered.
It was not a suggestion or a question but a command so quiet it barely reached me over the hum of the tires, which somehow made it worse than if he had shouted in panic.
My husband Caleb was a man who never panicked and always handled everything with calm precision, so when he spoke like that my hands went cold on the steering wheel without me understanding why.
“What are you talking about?” I asked while forcing a smile that tried to keep everything normal even as something inside me tightened.
He did not blink and kept staring forward as if he could already see something unfolding beyond the road we were driving on.
“Please just turn around now, Alyssa,” he said with a strain in his voice that I had almost never heard before.
I looked at him for a second that felt too long and then glanced back at the highway where the signs counted down the miles to the border like a harmless little promise of family visits and forced smiles at my parents’ place in San Diego County.
“Why are we turning around?” I asked again, this time sharper because I could feel something slipping out of control.
