She saw the look on my face and didn’t argue.

She ran up the stairs.

I stood in the dim kitchen, staring at the phone screen.

The camera flash from the street flickered through the cracks of the blinds.

The media storm had already arrived.

I had to get my children out of here before the world tore them apart.

I walked to the front door and locked the deadbolt.

The bell rang again, louder this time.

A heavy knock followed.

“Mr. Whitmore!” a voice shouted from the porch. “Is it true your mother falsified your medical records?”

I ignored the voice, my heart hammering against my ribs.

I walked to the bottom of the stairs and waited.

Maren came down carrying two small suitcases, with Noah and Lila trailing behind her.

The children looked terrified, clutching their stuffed animals.

“We go through the back door,” I whispered.

I took the suitcases from her hands.

We walked into the kitchen and toward the back exit.

I opened the back door slowly.

The alley behind the house was dark and empty.

“Keep low,” I told the kids.