Peering up at the house, Victor sees the room’s bay window, which he had noted on the blueprints. Perfect. He unhooks a rope with a small grappling hook from its place on his belt, spinning it in his hands for momentum. As he tosses it up to stick to its spot on the second story, Victor prays, silen

“Yes,” I say, but for some reason, I can’t will myself to get up. It’s safe in here, in our little hiding spot, and a big part of me wants to relish this calm before whatever is coming next. Victor pauses. “Are you okay? Is everything all right?” I laugh because, obviously, nothing is all right. B

“Boys,” Evelyn cries the moment she stumbles into the house. She’s still wearing her cotton nightgown, now splattered with mud and blood and grass stains, but she doesn’t seem to care. “Mama?” Alvin’s tired little face appears above the back of the couch. He blinks and rubs his eyes. “Mama!” he cri

When I wake up, it’s somehow the middle of the night. I sit up straight, almost hitting my head on the top bunk of Alvin and Ian’s little rocket bed. Alvin curled up next to me, fully asleep, with little Archie at his feet. I blink, trying to figure it out – how can it be the middle of the night wh

Two hours later, I pour Victor his fifth glass of whiskey. “This has gotta be the last one, Evelyn,” he says, his words only slightly slurred. But his face is happy, a little pink from laughter and drink. “Penultimate, at best,” I say, winking at him and making sure it’s an extra-generous pour. “