She held her breath, too scared to speak.
He crouched low, met her eyes. “You’re safe now. I’ve got you.”
His arms were strong. His coat smelled like leather and cigarettes. He wrapped her in a scratchy blanket and carried her outside, where flashing lights painted the street red and blue.
“I’ll make sure you’re okay,” he promised, buckling her into the back of his cruiser. “You hear me? You’re gonna be just fine.”
Lark wanted to believe him.
Fog rolled in. The street disappeared.
Now she stood on a porch—different house, different people. Her first foster family. They smiled widely, and inside the house, the smell of homemade pancakes wafted through the screen door.
Lark fiddled with her braid that the woman had done earlier that morning.
“Here, Lark.” The man bent over and handed her a signed baseball. “Take this and keep practicing. You’ll make for a decent pitcher, for a girl.”
“Where am I going?” Lark asked.
“It’s time to go to another family.” The man straightened, patting her shoulder, then pointed toward a woman leaning against a vehicle.
Lark knew that woman.
“But you promised I could stay here,” Lark said with a quivering lip.
“Sorry, kiddo. Things change.” The man shrugged.
The dream flipped again. Another house. Another bed. Another lie.
And then—darkness.
Gunfire. Screams. Blood on her hands. Alvarez’s eyes, wide and unblinking. Mina slumped beside the comms gear, half her face gone. Wes gurgled into the radio.
“Where’s the backup? Where the hell is our backup?”
Lark stood frozen, her rifle heavy in her hands, her mouth open in a scream she couldn’t make.
Then it was fire. Smoke. Kawan yelling her name. A blast of heat, a rush of air—and silence.
“Lark.”
Her body jerked. She was tangled in sweat-damp sheets, heart crashing like thunder against her ribs.
“Lark, it’s okay.”
Hands. Strong, warm, steady. A thumb brushed against her temple. The weight of an arm around her waist grounded her to the bed.
She couldn’t breathe.
“It’s me,” Kawan said gently. “You’re safe. I’ve got you.”
The words stabbed. Because they weren’t true—and she’d heard them before.
She shoved at his chest, rolled free of the sheets, feet hitting the floor. Her lungs heaved like she’d run a marathon, and her fingers trembled as she reached for the stress ball from the bedside table—only there wasn’t one. She paced, jaw clenched, nails digging into her thigh.
“Talk to me,” Kawan said softly behind her.
She opened her mouth, but the only thing that came out was a strangled groan. Images still burned behind her eyes. Cold linoleum. Static. Promises broken by time and silence. Wes and Mina’s blood. Alvarez twitching in that final second—those images weren’t real—but her dream had been so vivid she wanted to scream.
