I turn the page and start reading the next section aloud.
Sofia leans against my side, her attention drifting toward the window now too.
She's picking up on the tension.
Children always do.
It's like their sixth sense.
They can tell when the adults around them are tense or scared.
Marta slides a tray of cookies into the oven and sets the timer.
"I'm making hot chocolate. Would Sofia like some?"
I meet her gaze knowingly and smile. Milk will help her sleep, and it's late.
"Yes, please," Sofia says before I can answer.
Marta smiles and pulls milk from the fridge and gets started working on making my child a glass of warm chocolate milk, and it feels so out of place.
I know what Dante is out there doing—fighting this war that has to be ended for us to be safe.
It doesn't feel right to sit here in his kitchen reading a book and sipping hot cocoa, waiting for him to come home safely to us.
But this is what I have to do.
Keep Sofia's world intact and keep her safe from the ugliness outside these walls.
I'm halfway through the next page when the security lights in the garden flicker on, turning midnight to dawn in a flash.
I don’t see anything from my vantage point but something definitely triggered the switch.
The lights are motion-activated.
They only turn on when something—or someone—moves past the sensors, and I freeze in place, knowing if someone is out there moving, they can see in and we can't see out so easily.
Marta notices too.
She sets the milk down and moves toward the window, her expression shifting from calm to alert in an instant.
"Probably just a cat," she says, but her voice lacks conviction and her eyes pore over the backyard and the garden like she's scanning for an intruder.
I stand slowly, keeping Sofia close. "Stay here on this seat."
"Mama—"
"Stay here." I move toward the window, my pulse hammering in my ears.
Suddenly, I'm feeling lightheaded now, hands shaking.
The lights illuminate the east side of the garden now too and two figures step through the side gate with hunched postures and I see weapons in their hands.
They're dressed in dark maintenance jackets, the kind utility workers wear, but there's no one who schedules maintenance in the middle of the night.
Besides, Dante would've told me.
One of them lifts a radio to his mouth and though I can't read his lips or hear him, my instinct takes over.
