Gentle.
Like they're made of glass.
Like one wrong move might shatter them completely.
The parking lot is littered with bodies now.
I try to shield the kids from the worst of it.
Position myself between them and the carnage.
They've seen enough horror.
They don't need to see more.
No one escaped.
No one called for backup.
It's over.
Or at least, this part is over.
Rati approaches with a burner phone. "Anonymous tip to the authorities?" he asks.
Fenrir nods. "There's a church about ten miles south. Good people. The pastor there—he's helped us before. They'll keep the kids safe until the cops arrive and can reunite them with their families."
We load the children into the van—the same van that was probably going to take them to hell.
Now it's going to take them to safety.
The irony isn't lost on me.
Tor climbs in with them.
"I'll stay until we hand them off," he says. "They shouldn't be alone with strangers. They've had enough of that."
No one argues.
If anyone understands what these kids need, it's him.
The church is small.
White clapboard.
A cross lit up on the steeple, glowing against the dark sky.
The kind of place that actually practices what it preaches.
We pull up, make the handoff to a sleepy but immediately alert pastor who asks no questions and offers only kindness.
His wife appears moments later with blankets and warm milk.
"God bless you," the pastor says as the kids file inside, wrapped in quilts, clutching mugs. "Whatever you had to do to bring them here—God bless you for doing it."
I don't know about God, but I know those kids are safe.
That's enough.
