1
MACKENZIE
AGE 11
Ashbourne, New York
2012
Iwas eleven the night the FBI came for me.
My house had always smelled wrong at night. For years, it had always smelled rotten.
But the night they came for us, the smell was worse.
My eyes snapped open as soon as I heard the sirens wailing outside.
Blue and red lights pulsed across my bedroom walls.
The air from the window unit buzzed against my face—too cold, and too normal for a night like this. I clutched Clover to my chest, burying my nose in his matted fur. I had him since I was five. He was my good luck charm.
Boom.
Boom.
BOOM.
Heavy boots stomped, the sound echoing through the house like gunfire. I could almost see the thuds in the walls.
I squeezed my eyes shut and pressed my hands over my ears.
“Mackenzie,” a whispery voice called. “Mackenzie. Wake up.”
Two hands gripped my shoulders. They shook me until the room fractured into focus.
A man in black sat beside me.
He was so still. Dark hair slicked back like a soldier in a movie. Bold letters stretched across his chest.
F.B.I.
I sounded them out in my head, one by one, like I was learning to read again. I was eleven. I knew how to read. But these letters didn’t make sense.
Fear curled in my stomach, crawling up into my throat.
Then he looked at me, and everything stopped.
I shouldn’t feel safe. He’s a stranger in my room. There was something sweet about his eyes.
He seems nice, I think.
A calmness slid through me. The same feeling I got when I smelled cookies baking in December or stuck my hands in warm laundry straight from the dryer.
“I’m sorry to wake you, little one,” he said, his voice thick and sweet, like honey poured over ice cream. “But we’ve got to go.Now.”
My fingers tightened around Clover.
“Where’s my Mommy?”
