Restlessness
It had been a week since Mariah vanished without goodbye, and the silence in the Harris house felt unbearable. Layla had grown used to whispers in the dark, late-night giggles, secret promises. Now all she had was Kevin's smirk and Mrs. Harris's clipped reminders to "be grateful."
One Saturday, she was sent on an errand — to walk two blocks to the corner store and pick up milk. Mrs. Harris trusted her because Layla never misbehaved, never strayed from the rules.
But as she walked, clutching the dollar bills in her fist, she felt the weight of the world pressing in. Every block felt bigger without Jayden.
---
The Encounter
The store smelled like dust and candy. Layla bought the milk, counted her change carefully, and started walking home.
That's when she noticed the man.
Leaning against a car at the corner, cigarette glowing between his fingers. His eyes tracked her as she passed.
"Hey there, sweetheart," he called, voice low and oily.
Layla kept walking, hugging the milk to her chest. Her pulse quickened.
"You from the Harris place, huh? They always got new kids in and out." He took a step closer, his boots scraping the pavement. "How long you think you'll last?"
Her throat closed. She walked faster.
"Don't be rude," he said sharply. "I'm talking to you."
---
The Chase
Layla's legs moved before her brain caught up. She ran, sneakers pounding the cracked sidewalk, milk sloshing in the jug. She didn't look back, but she heard footsteps following, the scrape of boots quickening.
Her lungs burned, tears blurring her vision. She turned the corner, saw the Harris house at the end of the block like a lifeline.
"Come back here!" the man's voice echoed behind her.
She sprinted, heart exploding in her chest, and stumbled up the porch steps. Her hands fumbled at the doorknob, shaking so hard she nearly dropped the milk.
The door flew open. Mrs. Harris stood there, startled.
Layla shoved past her into the safety of the house, collapsing to her knees, gasping for breath.
---
Aftermath
"What on earth—?" Mrs. Harris started, but Layla couldn't speak. She clutched the milk like a shield, her body trembling.
Through the window, the man's car pulled away slowly, headlights disappearing down the street.
Mrs. Harris pressed her lips into a tight line. "This is why I don't like sending you kids out alone," she muttered. "City's full of trouble."
She didn't ask if Layla was okay. She didn't hug her. She just set the milk on the counter and told her to wash her hands for dinner.
---
The Lesson
That night, Layla lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. Her heart still raced, the man's voice crawling through her mind: How long you think you'll last?
She realized something chilling: the system didn't protect her. The house didn't protect her. Mrs. Harris didn't protect her.
If she wanted to survive, she had to protect herself.
She wrote it in her notebook, pressing the pencil so hard it nearly ripped the page:
Rule #3: Never trust the world outside the door.