The pantry door splintered inward with a deafening crack. Myla jerked backward, heart slamming into her throat. Her eyes flew around the small room—shelves stacked with dry goods, a crate of vegetables, a row of hanging aprons—until they locked on the small kitchen scissors lying near a loaf of bread.

Myla’s breath came fast, shallow. The door shuddered under another blow.

Her eyes darted around the narrow space. Flour bags. Jars of pasta sauce. A crate of bottled water. Then — the ...