4338.207 · July 26, 2018 AD
Nothing Looked Broken
Grandma says pack a bag. No explanation, no destination, just shoes on and socks folded. Rose is still trying to draw storm clouds when the world tilts — a knock at the door, strangers with devices that beep, words like "positive" and "removal" that don't mean what they used to. Then Grandma is leading them out the back door, past the bins, along the fence, and into a car parked two houses down. As they pull away, a sound splits the morning that no one will explain.
Rose's morning begins with the same heavy quiet as yesterday — Grandpa motionless, Grandma checking a phone that never rings. Then something shifts. Grandma tells them to pack, fast and careless, without saying where or why. Before they can leave, three deliberate knocks land at the front door. Rose and Mack are hidden in the sewing room while Grandma faces two officials carrying a testing device and a file on Grandpa. They speak of positive results, verification, removal — words Rose doesn't fully understand but feels in her body like cold water. Grandma buys herself five minutes and uses them to slip the children out the back, along the fence line, to a car parked down the street. As they buckle in, a sharp crack from the house splits the morning in two. Grandma doesn't answer when Mack names the sound. She drives, and the house shrinks in the rear window, looking exactly the same as it always did.
