Daniel wrapped Emma in his coat and lifted her against his chest.
She kept whispering that she was sorry.
That was the part I could not bear.
She apologized for opening a Christmas gift.
She apologized for crying.
She apologized while her face burned because, somewhere in the panic, she had decided the emergency must be her fault.
I reached for my shoes.
“Stay here,” Daniel said.
He was already moving toward the front door.
“Find the box. Bring it if you can. Don’t let anyone touch anything.”
I wanted to argue.
I wanted to go with my daughter.
But I also knew someone had to preserve whatever had caused the reaction.
Daniel carried Emma to the family SUV and settled her in the rear seat, curled against his coat.
The vehicle backed out of the driveway and disappeared down our neighborhood street.
Then the house went quiet.
The quiet was not peaceful.
