The air hung heavy with the damp chill of a gloomy Friday.

Stella, surrounded by half-packed belongings, paused in her preparations. Her son, Bryce, slept soundly, his small chest rising and falling rhythmically. She finished her bath, the steam clinging to her skin as she dried her hair by the window, the grey light outside mirroring her mood.

A sharp rap on the door startled her.

Opening it, she found her sister, Daisha, standing on the porch.

"Why?" Stella asked, her voice barely a ...