The tinted windows made it impossible to see who was inside.

My apartment was no longer a safe place for these children.

If these creditors were aggressive enough to bypass high-rise security, they wouldn’t stop at a locked door.

I needed to get the kids out of here, somewhere secure and private.

I thought of my colleague, Marcus, whose wife ran a private, high-security youth advocacy center upstate.

It was a vetted, confidential facility designed for families in transition or under threat.

It was safe, monitored twenty-four hours a day, and completely off the grid.

I pulled out my phone and sent a quick text to Marcus, asking if he could make a call for me.

Then I turned back to Hannah.

“You cannot stay here,” I said. “And the kids cannot stay here either.”

“But we have nowhere else to go,” she pleaded.

“I am going to contact the authorities about the harassment,” I said, my voice firm. “But first, we are going to move the children to a safe location.”

“A shelter?” she asked, her eyes widening.