I pushed the door open and stepped inside.
I froze.
Then I smelled something.
Garlic. Onion. Pot roast.
I pushed the door open and stepped inside.
There were boys in my house.
Ten of them. Mostly Calvin’s age, a few maybe a little older. All too young to look as tired as they did.
A tall boy with paint on his hands turned so fast he nearly dropped his brush.
One was painting over the water stain near the hall. One was fixing my broken shelf. One was on his knees scrubbing the floor. Two more were carrying grocery bags into the kitchen. There were tools on the table, sandwiches in a loaf pan, and my curtains were folded in a neat stack waiting to be rehung.
For one second, nobody moved.
Then I said, “What are you doing in my house?”
A tall boy with paint on his hands turned so fast he nearly dropped his brush.
The boy set the brush down slowly.
“Ma’am,” he said, “please don’t panic.”
“That depends entirely on what happens next.”
The boy set the brush down slowly. He had serious eyes. Careful eyes.
“We knew Calvin.”
I tightened my grip on my purse. “That does not explain why you are inside my house.”
Another boy, thinner, wearing glasses, pointed at the door. “We didn’t do that.”
My chest tightened.
The tall one nodded quickly. “It was already busted when we got here. Calvin gave me your address months ago. Said if anything ever happened, I was supposed to check on you.”
My chest tightened.
“He what?”
The boy swallowed. “Made me write it down. I thought he was joking.”
