The smell of bacon grease and old wood was the last normal thing I remember. Then the front door of Hagert’s Diner exploded inward.
I was a social worker. I’d read his file. Colton, eight years old. Brown hair. Big eyes that held too much silence. His mother had been gone for fourteen days.
I didn’t think when the gun came up. I just moved.
— Lady, you’re gonna wanna stay down.
— That’s my boy. You ain’t taking him.
I wrapped my body around that child like a shell. The first bullet hit between my shoulder blades with the force of a sledgehammer. The second cracked something in my spine. The third and fourth came so fast I was already falling before I felt them.
The floor was cold against my cheek. I could feel Colton’s heart hammering against my chest, his small fingers clutching my shirt like I was the only solid thing left in a world that had just come apart. His breath was hot against my neck.
— Please don’t leave me.
I wanted to tell him I wasn’t going anywhere. But the darkness was patient.
When I opened my eyes, the ceiling was wrong. Exposed pipes. Brick walls. A medical bed in the middle of a warehouse.
A man with a beard the color of storm clouds sat beside me. His vest said “Bear.” Beneath it, one word: President.
— Where am I?
— Somewhere safe.
His hands were the size of dinner plates, but when he held a straw to my lips, he didn’t spill a drop. Around us, at least twenty men in leather stood like sentinels. Not guarding the exits. Guarding me.
Then I saw him. Colton was curled in a chair pulled close to my bed, his knees drawn to his chest. He wore a flannel shirt that was too big. There were shadows under his eyes that no child his age should carry.
When he saw I was awake, his whole face broke open.
— You’re like a real superhero. Are you gonna stay awake now? You’ve been sleeping for a really long time.
— How long?
