School.
Teachers.
A man picked him up.
“Noah,” I whisper.
The word scrapes against my throat.
Both men look at me now.
“Where is my son?” I ask, my voice shaking. “Where is he?”
One of them leans forward slightly. His face is broad and hard, his eyes flat.
“You quiet,” he says in broken English.
I stare at him.
“You quiet, you keep pretty face.”
My stomach twists. I recognize the accent: it’s the creep who questioned me at the restaurant the other night.
“You scream?—”
He makes a small motion with two fingers across his own cheek.
“You lose it.”
The other man chuckles.
I freeze.
Not because I’m scared. I mean, Iam,but I’ve lived in the Bronx my whole life. I can handle an asshole or two with or without my trusty baseball bat.
But Noah is somewhere in their hands. I cannot give them a reason to hurt him.
With that thought in mind, I become still.
The car drives for a long time.
Or maybe it just feels long. Time stretches strangely when fear sits in your chest like a stone.
Eventually the car slows.
I hear gulls. The distant groan of metal.
Docks,I realize.We’re at the docks.
The doors open and rough hands drag me out.
Cold air hits my face.
The building in front of us is a warehouse. Rusted metal siding, broken windows. The kind of place that belongs in the worst B-Movie you’ve ever seen.
But this isn’t a shitty movie. This is my shitty life, and it’s about to get shittier.
They pull me forward. My head is still ringing from the blow, but adrenaline keeps me upright.
