She blinks against the flashing lights.
The shouting.
The chaos.
The woman who was just pulled away, screaming.
She doesn’t understand.
She just stands there.
Frozen.
A police officer kneels slightly, speaking softly to her, but she isn’t listening.
She’s looking past him.
Scanning.
Searching.
And then her eyes land on me.
I stop breathing.
For one split second, I see it.
Fear.
Not recognition.
Fear.
She takes a small step back.
Her hand curls into the sleeve of the hoodie.
Like she’s preparing to hide.
My chest caves in on itself.
No.
Please no.
I don’t move.
I’m terrified that if I take one step too fast, I’ll scare her more.
“Ivy,” I whisper. My voice cracks.
She flinches at the sound of it.
She studies me the way children study strangers, cautious, guarded, trying to decide if they’re safe.
Three years.
Three years of bedtime stories missed.
