I didn’t let go of Mia’s hand as we walked, even when she tugged, confused, asking why we weren’t going home to celebrate. The preschool balloons bobbed behind us, bright and stupid against the sky, as if the world hadn’t just tilted. Every step toward the train station felt like stepping off a cliff I couldn’t see the bottom of.
Inside the station, announcements echoed over cracked tiles, and I forced myself to move with purpose, like any other exhausted older brother shepherding a child. In my pocket, the key dug into my palm, a sharp reminder that hesitation could get us killed. I bought two tickets to nowhere in particular, just far. As the train doors slid shut, Mia leaned against me, already drifting to sleep. I stared at our blurred reflections in the window and made a silent promise to parents who were no longer there to hear it: whatever hunted them would die before it ever touched her.
