SERAPHINA’S POV
The shouting grew clearer once we stepped outside, where the grassy patch by the curb had become an accidental stage.
Maxwell stood at its center, shoulders drawn tight beneath his rolled-up sleeves, jaw clenched and eyes wild as he fought—and failed—to stay calm over the piercing wails of the crying child.
A woman clutched her son a few feet away, murmuring something between comfort and indignation.
And on Maxwell’s other side were Noah and Zach, both flushed and trembling, their golden retriever crouched low, shivering with its ears flattened.
Daniel tugged at my sleeve. “What’s going on?”
“I’m not sure yet,” I murmured, scanning the scene.
But even from here, I could read the shape of it—the tightness of Noah’s grip on the leash, the defiance stiff
