It had been three long days since Avery had returned home from the incident. Three days of restlessness. Three days of waiting.
She hadn't seen Silas since that day, and it was slowly eating away at her. The memory of his panicked cries, his tear-streaked face as he called out for his mother while fire engulfed their home—it haunted her, replaying over and over in her mind like a broken film reel.
Her small legs dangled over the edge of her bed as she sat with a plush toy clutched to her chest. It was afternoon already, and yet again, her father wasn't home.
She'd tried asking Layla if she knew anything about Silas, but all she had offered was a shrug and a mumbled, "I don't know, Avery." And when she went to Elias, hoping her brother might have some secret clue, he had only patted her head and said with a soft smile, "I really don't know either, Avery. Don't worry too much."
But how could she not worry?
