Helen drove to Lisa’s house in a fine drizzle. The driveway was bare, blinds shut. She knocked, rang, pressed her ear to the quiet. Through a sliver in the curtain: a spotless kitchen, no backpacks, no shoes piled like driftwood by the door.
Boxes stacked in the living room corner. Something in Helen sank. She called again. Voicemail held its breath and said nothing back.
Across the street, Mrs. Patel waved from her garden. “They left early Saturday—lots of luggage. A trip, maybe?” A trip. Without a word.
