I work the window latch, rust flaking beneath my fingers. The hinges protest when I push it open, but another whistling rocket swallows the squeak. “I’ll go first. Then help you.”
I shove my shoulders through the tight space, scraping them against the frame before scrambling into a crouch in the shadows beside the house. Another explosion, this one red and gold, illuminates the lawn in brief, bloody light. In that flash, I catalogue everything.
Three men by the grill, a cluster of women with wine glasses, children darting between adult legs, the gate leading to the front yard standing half open.
I reach back through the window.
Chloe’s smaller hands grasp mine. She’s heavier than she appears, all lean muscle beneath soft skin. I guide her through the opening, steadying her as she tumbles into my arms. Her body fits against mine with a disturbing rightness.
“Stay low. Follow me. Step where I step.” I sneak along the side of the house. The air smells of gunpowder and char, the familiar scents of my life woven into this suburban setting.
Each explosion provides both cover and exposure. Darkness in which to move, chased by sudden, blinding brightness that freezes us in place.
I time our passage through the gate between bursts of fireworks. With everyone drawn to the backyard spectacle, the front yard remains mercifully empty. Keeping to the deepest shadows, I lead her toward the street, one arm around her waist.
She winces as we cross onto the sidewalk.
“Your feet.” I’d forgotten she was barefoot. Without thinking, I lift her into a bridal carry.
She stiffens before relaxing against me. “I can walk.”
“You’ll slow us down.” And her bare feet would leave trails for someone to track, especially if she stepped on a sharp object that drew blood.
Mostly, I don’t want her hurt, and that realization unsettles me.
I can’t explain the desire away with tactical reasoning, so I shove it aside for now.
Reflexively, I dodge the streetlamps, choosing paths through yards rather than down open roads. Every shadow is a potential threat, every noise a warning. My senses stretch outward, categorizing each input as either danger or irrelevant.
In my arms, Chloe feels warm and alive, her heartbeat a counterpoint to mine. I’ve carried bodies before, the dead and soon-to-be expired, but nothing like this.
I’ve never cradled someone against my chest like they’re precious.
Chyort vozmi. I’m compromised.
I set her down at the edge of another yard, where the grass meets the sidewalk. “Just for a minute.” I need to free my hands and check our surroundings more thoroughly.
She nods, still quiet, tracking me with those wide eyes that see too much and understand too little.
With nightfall, the neighborhood’s celebration has transformed.
What was once a hunting ground for men with guns is now a gauntlet of civilians, each one a potential witness or casualty.
Steering away from the most populated areas, we navigate a circuitous route that adds time but reduces exposure. Finally, her house comes into view. The block is quiet, the dying thud of a final bottle rocket marking the end of the celebrations.
I slow our approach, scanning for movement, for the telltale reflection of a scope, for anything out of place.
The front window is shattered, jagged glass teeth still clinging to the frame. I position myself between her and the street, shielding her with my body as we reach her porch.
Chloe freezes beside me, her attention trained on the broken window. For a moment, her cheerful mask slips, revealing the raw fear beneath. Then, like donning armor, she rebuilds her bright, determined expression.
“Good thing it’s a long weekend. I can get that fixed tomorrow morning. Home Depot opens at six. And the fire trucks are coming to school bright and early on Tuesday. I need to get my diorama supplies together. The kids’ll be so excited.”
She rambles as I assess our surroundings. No moving shadows across the street. No unfamiliar cars parked nearby. The shooters have either given up or gone to ground.
For now.
I guide her toward the entrance, scrutinizing the darkened interior before allowing her to enter. Someone ransacked her house. Upended the furniture. Emptied drawers onto the floor. Tore pictures from walls.
