No voices, no footsteps. I can only hear my heart and my breathing.
I stop breathing.
I don’t know how long I wait.
My legs hurt. My arms fall asleep. The house feels wrong.
Too quiet.
Like it’s holding its breath with me.
I open the door.
Slow.
I stay low, like Baba taught me. On my hands and knees. The kitchen light is on. Mama is on the floor. Her hair is spread out funny. Her arm is bent the wrong way.
I crawl faster.
My hand slips in something warm and wet.
Red.
I pull it back fast and rub it on my pants.
“Mama?” I whisper.
I shake her shoulder.
Nothing.
“Mama,” I say again, louder.
She doesn’t move. I shake her harder.
“Wake up.”
My chest hurts. My eyes burn. I cry. Loud now.
I can’t stop.
Baba comes in.
He scoops me up so fast my feet leave the floor.
“What happened?” he asks.
His voice sounds strange. Tight.
I point.
I tell him about the woman. Her voice. Her hair.
The way Mama sounded scared.
Baba’s eyes go dark.
Empty.
