A yellow school bus was turning the corner two blocks away.
Our mailbox still leaned a little from the snowplow that clipped it last winter.
The small American flag Daniel had tucked into the porch planter for Memorial Day was faded at the edges and tapping softly in the afternoon wind.
The front door was unlocked.
That was the first bad sign.
The second was the smell.
It hit me as soon as I stepped inside.
Not smoke.
Not natural gas.
Something sweet and chemical tucked underneath cinnamon, thick enough to coat the back of my throat.
The house was warm, but not in the normal way.
The air felt artificial.
Heavy.
Like someone had tried to perfume danger and forgotten danger still had weight.
“Chloe!” I screamed.
No answer.
I ran into the kitchen and nearly slipped on broken ceramic.
Daniel was on the floor beside the island, one arm twisted under him, his coffee mug shattered near his hand.
