Outside, the world was a Norman Rockwell parody: fake snow on the lawns, every porch wrapped in discount LED, the neighborhood frozen solid by the first decent cold snap of the year. It would’ve been beautiful if I didn’t know exactly how many guns were pointed at this block.
Sarge made another perimeter pass, gliding beneath the gutter icicles with the posture of a man who’d rather be shooting something than freezing his balls off. Even from here, I could see the cross pin on his lapel catching the porch light every time he turned. He hit every mark with military rhythm: mailbox, garbage cans, down the walk, then a slow orbit of the Escalade. Every third lap, he’d pause under my window and look up—not at me, never directly, but at my light, making sure the silhouette behind the curtain was right where it should be.
I pressed my palm to the glass. Warmth leeched out of me, but I left a print anyway. He was watching for movement. Maybe I could throw a chair through the window, but the drop to the garden below was a solid twelve feet, and Sarge would be on me before I cleared the hedges. Not that I hadn’t considered it. Not that I wasn’t considering it now.
Downstairs, my father’s voice coiled through the vents, low and oily. I moved to the heat register and lay my ear against the grill. Every word of his private conversations came up through the ductwork if you knew how to listen, a trick I’d learned in fourth grade when I wanted to know who he was cussing out during Sunday lunch.
“…transport leaves before dawn… yes, paperwork is handled. Isolation protocol will be observed. We don’t want any complications.” The next bit was static, then, “She’s not a flight risk. I have someone on perimeter.” Another pause, then, “No,Brock won’t be required unless she resists. I’d rather avoid the trauma.”
I wanted to scream. Instead, I bit the inside of my cheek until I tasted blood, then wiped my eyes with the heel of my hand. I wasn’t a kid anymore, and crying didn’t solve jack shit.
The ring on my thumb felt like a brand. Axel had given it to me at the Circle K, the night we first ran out of places to hide and realized we liked each other better that way. The silver had dents and scratches, and it smelled faintly of his aftershave and motor oil. When I squeezed it, I could almost feel his hand on my jaw, his fingers splayed, rough and gentle at the same time.
I wondered what he’d do in my place. Probably start a riot. Set off the fire alarm. Kick through the drywall and crawl out like a rat, then burn the house down for good measure.
Sarge’s boot heels clicked on the porch. I retreated to my bed and pulled the blankets over my knees, just in case he decided to check in. My father liked to remind me that Silas was “family,” but I’d seen the man break a dog’s neck for barking at a church picnic. He had all the warmth of a walk-in freezer.
My desk lamp, the only light left in the room, cast everything in this sickly, jaundice glow. Shadows knotted in the corners. I picked up the tangle of Christmas lights and tried to fix the mess, but my hands shook too much. I pulled the plug and tossed them in the trash. They belonged to the old Darla—the one who gave a shit about carols and fairy lights, not the one who slept with a knife under her pillow and catalogued every escape route before sunset.
From the vent, my father’s voice returned. “If she gives you any trouble, sedate her.” No reply. “Yes, I’ll handle the discipline myself.” Then softer, “God help her if she embarrasses me again.”
I wanted to puke. The word “retreat” made me think of spas and overpriced aromatherapy, but I knew what it meant whenthe paperwork included phrases like “involuntary hold” and “behavioral reprogramming.” There were rumors about those places—the kind that got you a six-figure hush settlement if you survived.
I’d once believed my father was a good man, even if he cared more about the church’s reputation than my actual pulse. But lately, the mask had slipped. He talked about love and forgiveness, but all I saw in him now was ambition and the bottomless need for control. I was a PR problem to be solved, not a daughter.
I sat in the dark, clutching Axel’s ring, counting down the hours until they shipped me out like a broken appliance. I wondered if anyone would notice if I vanished. The thought made me laugh, which made me cry, which made me hate myself more than I already did.
Another pass. Sarge’s shadow slid across my curtains. I wondered if he’d ever had a daughter. Or if he’d ever been one.
I mouthed “fuck you” at the glass, then pressed my thumbprint over my own reflection.
It was the only proof I existed.
***
Sleep was a sick joke. If I managed to drift off, I’d wake in a panic, convinced Sarge was standing over me with a plastic tie and a pillowcase, ready to drag me off to the land of lobotomized good girls. I lost track of the hours staring at the ceiling, counting the cracks in the drywall, the seconds between Sarge’s rounds. They didn’t teach you about this flavor of fear in Sunday school.
It was almost dawn when I spotted the kid.
He was out of place—a pudgy, mop-haired boy on a rusty BMX, circling the cul-de-sac at the edge of my father’s invisiblemoat. No one under the age of sixteen ever loitered on this street, not unless they were trying to sell you something or make a TikTok. But this kid was just… orbiting, slow and aimless, popping wheelies and catching frost on his eyebrows.
I watched him through the slit in my curtains, my heart stuttering. I almost called out, but the window didn’t open. Then I remembered the flashlight, a tiny red Maglite I’d hidden in my nightstand last summer for emergencies and secret journaling. The only reason my father hadn’t confiscated it was that he’d forgotten it existed.
I scrambled for it, tore open the drawer, and found the flashlight wedged behind a stack of Bibles and a roll of half-melted cherry Chapstick. The batteries were still good. I flipped the switch and squatted behind the curtain, hand trembling as I pointed the beam at the sidewalk below.
Three short, three long, three short. I remembered the Morse code from Girl Scouts, back before I got kicked out for “theft of camp property” (long story, involved a missing paddleboat and an extremely high raccoon). I pulsed the code again, then aimed the flashlight at the kid’s handlebars, hoping to catch his attention.
It worked. The kid braked hard, squinted up at the window, and almost fell off his bike. I did the sequence again, holding my breath. He stared, mouth open, one mitten dangling. Then, like he was being called to dinner, he started pedaling straight toward the house.
My hope ballooned, then imploded. Sarge clocked the movement instantly. He didn’t break stride—just turned on his heel and intercepted the kid at the edge of the driveway. He said something I couldn’t hear, but the boy’s face collapsed into a “yes, sir” of pure fear. Sarge bent at the waist and spoke close to the kid’s ear, one hand on the cross pin, the other squeezing the kid’s shoulder like he was checking for ripeness.
The kid nodded, turned around, and rode off so fast he left a streak of rubber on the curb. Sarge watched him until he was out of sight, then looked up at my window, face blank as a cinderblock. He tapped the walkie-talkie on his belt twice, held it to his mouth, and murmured something into the static.
I dropped the curtain and backed away, heart jackhammering against my ribs. I killed the flashlight and stuffed it in my bra, but it was too late. They’d seen me. I braced for Sarge to come through the door, or worse, for my father to make a “teachable moment” out of it.
I didn’t have to wait long. The sound of boots on hardwood was unmistakable, followed by the measured, practiced knock of my father. Three knocks, pause, then a slow turn of the doorknob. Not a question, but a warning.
He entered in full Sunday Best—three-piece suit, silk tie, the whole sanctimonious package. His eyes swept the room, landed on me in my tank top and boxer shorts, then flicked to the curtain.
