RONAN I ignored another of the man’s comments about my family’s money and let my attention linger on the photograph. The longer I looked at it, the tighter my chest became. Anxiety crept back in, quiet at first, then sharp. The familiar terror followed close behind, the not knowing. Not knowing where they were. Not knowing if they were safe. Just as the fear began to coil too tightly to ignore, Nguyen whistled, holding up another photo in his gloved hands. “Damn,” he said. “Who’s the Nordic god hanging off your shoulder?” I slid my parents’ photo back into place and quickly snatched the other frame from him. “Wish my mom would let it go,” I muttered. The picture showed Chris and me at our last family reunion.We stood shoulder to shoulder, sunburned and smiling, with the recreation of the Parthenon rising in pale stone behind us. It had been a good day. A simpler one. “Ex-boyfriend?” Nguyen asked. “Ex-fiancé. I called it off.” He gave a low hum of appreciation. “I’m not homosexual, but I’d consider it for a guy like that. Why’d you dump him?” I returned the frame to the shelf, careful to set it exactly where it had been. “Because I wasn’t the only guy he liked.” Nguyen tilted his head back in understanding. “Ah. Picture’s still up, so Mom doesn’t know?” Something fierce and instinctive surged through me. “No, she doesn’t. If you meet her, she still won’t know.” Nguyen raised both hands, palms out. His rifle remained secured across his chest. “I won’t get in the middle of your family drama.” I stepped back from the shelf. “Really? You seem pretty far up in my business right now.”A corner of his mouth twitched. “I guess spooks don’t know the meaning of hypocrisy.” I was about to tell him that I never invaded the privacy of anyone who didn’t deserve it, but Jackson’s voice cut in from the kitchen. “Could use some water for O’Brien.” I jerked my head toward the kitchen. Nguyen nodded, and we moved out of the living space together. I went straight to the refrigerator. “There’s a filtered pitcher in here.” I reached for the handle. The screen embedded in the right French door sprang to life without warning. My mother’s smiling face filled the display. I froze. Her smile was practiced, too careful. I could see the fear behind it, the strain at the corners of her eyes where worry had settled in deep. My breath stalled in my lungs. This had to be where they were. Or where they had been.I knew the moment I touched the screen, the recording would play. I also knew I might break apart once it did. For one suspended instant, I tried to hold on to control. Then restraint vanished. I pressed my finger to the screen. She came alive. “Hi, Dilly.” She stopped, eyes drifting to the corner of the display as if listening to someone just out of frame. Behind her was our kitchen, our kitchen. The island stood exactly where it always had, clean and uncluttered. No wounded man sprawled across it. No blood. I had eaten hundreds of meals there. The dining room was bigger and more formal, but the kitchen was where our family actually lived. Where arguments happened. Where laughter stuck to the walls. I saw several of my siblings moving quickly through the background, grabbing bags, checking lists, passing supplies from hand to hand. I had leaned against that island for hours at a time, talking about nothing and everything. My mother smiled again, wider this time. I knew it was forced. “If you’re seeing this, then you’re okay.” She stopped and wiped at her eye, steadying herself before continuing. “We heard about what’s happening near the Capitol. You never told us exactly where you worked, but I know it’s in that region. I really hope you’re standing in our home and watching this right now.” My father stepped into frame and bent close to her, murmuring something I couldn’t hear. His eyes flicked up to the camera. For a single heartbeat, they locked onto the lens. It felt like being hit square in the chest. He looked away, jaw tightening, and shook his head as if refusing to accept a terrible possibility. Then he turned back to packing, to planning, to doing something, anything, that felt like control.Mom’s shoulders sagged. When she lifted her head again, she didn’t bother hiding the tears. “Oh, my little boy. I hope you’re seeing this.” Her voice wavered, but she pushed on. “I can’t take too long. It isn’t safe here anymore.” She swallowed hard. “We’ve seen videos. Posts. Groups attacking non-Christians. They burn people’s homes down with them still inside.” Her hand trembled as she clasped it to her chest. “We can’t stay here. We don’t have enough guns to protect ourselves.” Her eyes searched the camera as if she could see me through it. “We’re leaving soon.” The screen dimmed slightly, the recording still running, and I stood there with my hand resting against cold glass, trying to remember how to breathe.