Thomas was standing in front of a brick building with a green awning.

He had his arm wrapped tightly around the waist of a young woman with dark hair.

She was wearing a yellow sundress and laughing, looking up into his eyes.

Thomas was smiling a genuine, relaxed smile.

It was a look I had not seen on his face in years.

On the back of the photo, a date was written in blue ballpoint ink.

It was from three months ago.

A Tuesday.

That was a night he told me he was pulling a double shift at the furniture workshop to pay for my medicine.

My chest tightened until I could barely draw air.

The papers scrambled in my hands as I tried to hold them all.

The front door shuddered under a massive kick.

The brass trim around the lock rattled against the wood.

“Kiera!” the voice screamed.

“This is Marcus!”

“Open this damn door right now!”

My breath caught in my throat.

Marcus.

Thomas’s boss at the furniture workshop.

The man Thomas always spoke of with a mixture of fear and quiet anger.