“We’ve got a man bleeding. He’s going gray. We just need a floor. Just until the storm breaks.”
Keisha pressed her forehead to the wood.
Her hands were shaking so hard she could barely keep the candle steady.
Marcus whimpered against her shoulder—small, hot breath, a little shiver that made her heart twist.
She crept to the window and pulled the curtain back two inches.
Twenty-five men stood in her yard, half-buried in snow. Leather jackets. Heavy boots. Faces wrapped in scarves. Helmets tucked under arms.
Not one of them looked comfortable.
They looked… desperate.
One guy was slumped against a bike like he might slide down into the snow and not get back up.
And the man in front—big as a refrigerator, gray beard crusted with ice—lifted his hands like he was surrendering.
“We see your candle,” he called. “We’re not here to scare you. We’re just out of time.”
