Four small blue suitcases lined the floor beside them.

Hannah’s four children were running circles around the lobby couch, dragging their coats on the floor.

Luis was watching them with a strained, polite expression on his face.

My stomach tightened into a knot.

They had not called.

They had just shown up, expecting my door to open as it always did.

Linda stepped closer to the intercom panel.

She pressed the button again, her manicured finger tapping the metal.

The buzzer rang through my quiet kitchen.

I watched the screen as Hannah tried her old electronic key card against the reader.

The light flashed a bright red.

She frowned and tapped the plastic card against the reader again, harder this time.

“It’s not working,” Hannah said.

Her voice came through the intercom speaker, thin and annoyed.

Linda sighed and adjusted her oversized sunglasses.

“Try it again, Hannah,” Linda said. “He must be up there.”

“I am trying,” Hannah said. “He must have changed the code.”

I watched Hannah’s face turn a blotchy red on the high-definition monitor.

She turned to Linda and muttered something I couldn’t quite hear over the static.

Then, Linda lifted a large, thick manila envelope from her bag.

She tapped the edge of it against her palm, looking up at the security camera.

The camera zoomed slightly as Luis adjusted the feed from his desk.

The bold, printed letters on the front of the envelope became clear under the lobby lights.

It read: *Petition for Temporary Guardianship.*

My breath caught in my throat.

Underneath the printed title, my own name, Mark Collins, was typed in dark block letters.

The kids continued to jump on the lobby furniture, their laughter muffled by the speaker.

Hannah grabbed her phone and started dialing.

My cell phone began to vibrate on the granite kitchen counter.

The screen lit up with Hannah’s name.