28
Sara
I hear it right before Peter bursts into the kitchen, where Mom and I are discussing potential nursery themes.
The unmistakable roar of helicopter blades.
“Let’s go.” He picks me up before I can blink. “Excuse us,” he says to my stunned mother, and holding me tightly against his chest, he steps around her, heading for the door.
I grip his shirt spasmodically. “Peter, what—”
“No time.” He yanks open the door and backs out, holding me—only to freeze in place as a huge black van screeches onto our street and figures in SWAT gear pour out, face shields down and assault rifles aimed at us.
My brain feels like it’s suddenly turned to sludge.
I can’t process this.
Can’t even begin to.
Slowly and very deliberately, Peter lowers me to my feet and steps in front of me, shielding me
