The porch in front of Grams's house looks the same as it did when I was little: two shallow steps, a rocker in the corner, boards that creak their complaint if you try to sneak around. Bella and I are hand in hand, gazing up at the home where I spent some of the best moments of my childhood.
Around us, dawn hasn’t made up its mind yet--the sky is the gray that erases color and makes breath look bigger than it is.
I stop at the bottom step and put Bella close on my left. My hands tingle—not from fear, not exactly, just the leftover buzz from running, glancing over my shoulder, and listening for trouble too long.
“Stay by me,” I tell Bella, low.
“Okay,” she answers, and her hand finds mine. Her palm is warm and her presence is certain.
We climb and stand on the top step. I hesitate be
