After my husband boarded a plane for a business trip, my six-year-old suddenly tugged my hand and whispered, “Mom… we can’t go back home. This morning I heard Dad on the phone, talking about something that involves us—and it didn’t sound right.” So we didn’t go back.

“My house is burning,” I said. “Buckhead. I’m on a side street behind it. We’re safe for the moment.”

“Can you drive?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Then listen carefully,” she said. “Get in your car right now. Do not talk to neighbors. Do not talk to police. Do not answer your husband. Drive to this address.”

She gave me a location in Sweet Auburn, her words crisp, as if she’d given directions to frightened women before.

“Come now,” she added. “And Ayira. If anyone calls you, you do not pick up. Not even family. Understand?”

My stomach knotted, but I nodded anyway, even though she couldn’t see me.

“Yes.”

“Good. Go.”

I hung up and sat for half a second, letting the phone drop into my lap like it weighed a hundred pounds.

Kenzo’s voice came small from beside me. “Mama?”

I looked at him. “We’re leaving,” I said. “We’re going somewhere safe.”

His shoulders sagged in relief, and I hated myself for every time I’d brushed him off before. For every time I’d treated his fear like imagination.

I started the SUV and drove away from the burning street without looking back.