Twelve Years Ago
Ethan — Age 9
The rain hadn't stopped in hours.
Ethan sat on the curb, his knees pulled to his chest, sneakers soaked through. The streetlight above flickered like it couldn't decide if it wanted to die or stay alive. His backpack sat beside him, heavy with wet books and half a sandwich he didn't eat.
His mom was late again.
He checked his watch—except he didn't have one. Just did that thing adults did in movies when they wanted time to move faster.
Across the street, the school's front office lights blinked off. Everyone was gone now. Everyone except him.
He should've gone back inside.
He should've waited.
But then a car pulled up. Not a beat-up sedan like his mom's. A black van. Clean. Quiet.
The window rolled down.
"Ethan?" a man's voice called out. "Come on, buddy. Your mom sent me."
Ethan stood, hesitant. "She did?"
The man smiled. He had a clipboard in his lap. Looked official. "Yeah. Said she got stuck in traffic and asked us to come get you. I've got your name here."
He held up the clipboard, but Ethan couldn't read what it said from the curb.
He didn't move.
That's when he saw her—Sophia—walking up the sidewalk in her red raincoat, hood down, her braids soaked and clinging to her face. Her mom worked late, too. Sometimes they waited together.
"Who's that?" she asked.
Ethan didn't answer. His stomach twisted.
The man leaned out of the van. "Hey there, sweetheart. You're Sophia, right? We've got your name here too."
She looked at Ethan. "Did your mom really send them?"
"I don't know," he said.
She frowned. "We should go back inside."
The van door slid open.
And everything after that was fast. Too fast.
A second man appeared from behind the van, grabbed Sophia first—she screamed—and then Ethan. Kicking. Scratching. But the rain swallowed their voices. No one heard them.
They were gone before the streetlight could flicker again