Through the tinted side window, I could make out the plastic silhouette of a child’s car seat.

My hands gripped the steering wheel so tightly my knuckles turned white.

I sat there in the quiet of the cabin, my twelve-hour shift at the clinic weighing heavily on my shoulders.

My legs ached, and my eyes felt scratchy from the harsh fluorescent hospital lights.

But the exhaustion was instantly replaced by a cold, sharp dread.

I took a slow breath, trying to steady my racing pulse.

*Keep your head down,* Marcus had said. *Document everything.*

I reached into my bag, pulled out my phone, and snapped a photo of the minivan and its license plate through my windshield.

Then I got out of the car.

The autumn air was crisp, carrying the scent of damp earth and fallen leaves.

As I walked up the porch steps, I heard voices from inside the house.

There was laughter, loud and booming, followed by the high-pitched shriek of a toddler.

I unlocked the front door and pushed it open.

The warm air of the foyer hit me, but it didn’t feel like my home anymore.