When I refused, gripped by a sudden, icy premonition, he didn’t argue. He walked around the car, unbuckled my seatbelt with steady hands, and physically hauled me onto the dirt. I had clawed at the door, screaming for Caleb, but Brian was a wall of muscle and calculated indifference. He had shoved me back, slammed the door, and locked it. Through the glass, I saw Caleb’s small, pale face pressed against the rear window, his hands smearing the tint as he began to cry.

I thought he was having a psychotic break. I thought the stress of his firm had finally snapped a cord in his mind. I stood there, praying for a car—any car—to stop before the sun or the panic swallowed us whole.

The patrol car that eventually pulled over felt like a mirage. The officer, a man with a face like creased leather, offered Caleb a bottle of lukewarm water and a sympathetic nod. He stayed with us until a second vehicle arrived to transport us to the nearest precinct.

As I sat in the back of that cruiser, clutching Caleb to my side, I noticed the first hairline fracture in the reality I thought I knew. I looked down at my hands. I had nothing. No purse. No phone. No ID. Everything was in the car. But as the memory of Brian packing that morning flickered through my mind, a sickening realization began to coil in my gut. He had insisted on loading the bags. He had told me to “go ahead and rest” while he handled the heavy lifting.