They huddled upstairs, whispering furiously. “We should call the police,” his aunt urged. “And tell them what?” her husband snapped. “That we have no real papers to prove that this is our place?” She wrung her hands, tears brimming. Another knock echoed from below. This time, neither spoke. Silence weighed heavier than any explanation.
He released the exterior gate with a click his uncle couldn’t hear but might feel. The driveway lights far away pooled brighter, like a stage beckoning escape. He brightened the stair light a shade, then killed it, then brightened it again. Hesitation bloomed, then cracked along predictable lines.