ISABEL
The gates of the Queens estate loom ahead, wrought iron twisted into ornate patterns I used to trace with my fingers as a child.
My hands strangle the steering wheel. The engine idles, a low purr that does nothing to calm the jackrabbit pace of my heart.
Three years. I haven't driven through these gates in three years.
I check the clock on the dash. 5:47 PM.
The gates swing open automatically, they still recognize my car. Of course they do. My father never removed me from the system, never erased me despite everything.
That thought makes my eyes burn.
I drive through slowly, the tires crunching on the perfectly maintained gravel drive. The oak trees that line the path are fuller than I remember, their branches creating a cathedral ceiling overhead. Late afternoon sun filters
