It was a pretty quiet morning, to be honest. It’s always so quiet in our neighborhood. Or, it was, before all this. I guess it’ll be quiet again, now that this is all over.

Charity was on fire. Her legs, her lungs- everything burned as she tore through the woods, making no effort to dodge the branches that clawed at her face. She could see their shadows in front of her, stark against the light of the torches they bore. She stumbled over roots and fallen branches, but she couldn’t slow down. She wouldn’t allow them to catch her.

It was a humid summer, the kind you can feel tugging on your skin the second you walk out the door. That day, the clouds had been threatening rain, and I was driving to the middle school.

The morning was muggy, the dusty air carrying the scent of hydrangeas and sizzling asphalt. I pressed my face against the filthy windowsill next to my bed, taking in a few breaths of the morning breeze before falling back into the stagnant air of the bedroom. My sister was still asleep, curled up on the pillow next to mine. Across the room, the bed my mother shared with my baby brother was empty. 

“You ready?” Jake nodded. Lucy reached for his hand, and he hesitated.

“Hey, hey, hey. Relax,” she smiled and held his hand up to her face. “Let’s go home, Jake, okay?”

“I’m scared.”

“C’mon. You can’t be scared your whole life.”

“I can. I mean, I have been up to now.”

Bianca’s eyes rolled as she shifted closer to my side, pressing her leg into mine. My breath caught in my throat, and Bianca frowned as I pulled my legs to my chest.

“Sadie, please. For me.”

This story begins at an IHOP, as all great American stories do. I mean, sometimes we get a cool, broody story that takes place in the dark woods of Washington, but most of the time we get the type of story that begins at 8 pm in an IHOP bathroom. That’s just how the universe works, I suppose.

The first pink glimpses of the sun peeking over the horizon illuminate the diner, tinting the tile floor with bubblegum hues. It’s 5:46 in the morning, when most of the world is still huddled beneath the comforter, hanging on to the last minutes of blissful rest. I’m the only worker on the morning shift that day-- well, me and my manager, Trisha. Our only cook won’t arrive for his shift until 6:00. Nobody with an ounce of sanity works the 5am shift; perhaps that’s why I always end up here, serving mediocre eggs to America’s loneliest passersby.