“You are,” Isabella said, looking at her grandchildren with a faint smile.

“But you cannot stay in Illinois,” Isabella added.

“Where do we go?” I asked.

“Wisconsin,” Isabella said, reaching into her pocket to pull out a small manila envelope.

She handed it to Adrian.

“A house near the lake, registered under a name that has nothing to do with the Vales,” Isabella said.

“The deed is inside, along with new identification cards and cash,” she added.

Adrian took the envelope and held it tightly in his hand.

“Thank you, Mother,” Adrian said.

Isabella nodded once, her expression returning to its usual guarded stillness.

“Do not contact me,” Isabella said.

“The authorities will be watching everyone with the Vale name for the next decade,” Isabella added.

“I will manage my own exit,” she said.

The van turned a sharp corner, and the distant sound of city traffic began to fade.

We drove in silence for over two hours, leaving the city lights behind us.

The children eventually fell asleep, their small bodies piled together on the blankets between Adrian and me.