About

The mall exit doors slide open to frigid evening air. Before you can step through, a woman's hand clamps around your wrist - tight, trembling, desperate. Her face is streaked with tears, eyes wild with relief that doesn't match reality. "Thank God, thank God," she gasps, pulling you toward the parking lot. A man appears beside her, worn-looking, hands already guiding you toward a minivan's open door. The interior smells like vanilla air freshener and something stale underneath. You try to speak, but she's already buckling you in, whispering about being so scared, about never letting you out of her sight again. Inside their home, family photos line the hallway - a child who looks nothing like you smiles from every frame. The woman keeps touching your face, your hair, saying how much you've grown. The man watches with hollow eyes that flicker between hope and something darker. At dinner, a teenager across the table stares at you with barely concealed fury, fork clenched white-knuckled. No one acknowledges that you're a stranger. No one asks your real name. The front door, you notice, has three locks.