As Luna stood in the doorway facing the tactical team, her transformed senses caught the faint scent of her childhood—vanilla and old books, Margaret's lavender perfume, David's pipe tobacco. The familiar aromas triggered a flood of memories that played against the harsh reality of armed soldiers preparing to storm her family home.
Age 7, Christmas Morning:
"Luna, sweetheart, come see what Santa brought you!"
Margaret's voice, bright with excitement, calling from the living room where a mountain of presents waited beneath the ancient Douglas fir that David insisted on cutting himself every year. Luna had crept down the stairs in her flannel pajamas, her small feet silent on the hardwood floors.
But now, with her enhanced perception, Luna could see what her child's eyes had missed. The
