The ink had dried on the contracts yesterday afternoon. My bank accounts were currently swelling with numbers that looked like typographical errors. I hadn’t told my family a single word.
I closed my eyes, the cold concrete pressing against my spine, feeling the phantom weight of David’s hand on my shoulder. I fixed it, David, I whispered into the dark. No one else will die in the dark. I promise.
Suddenly, at exactly 7:58 a.m., the floor beneath my cot began to vibrate. It wasn’t a subtle tremor. It was the low, guttural, predatory growl of heavy, armored military-grade engines pulling directly up to the aluminum door.
I didn’t bother changing clothes. I brushed a layer of grey concrete dust off my maternity jeans, pulled on David’s old field jacket, and hauled the heavy garage door upward along its rusted tracks.
The blinding morning sunlight poured in, and there it sat in the driveway.
