Isabella Elena Chen was three weeks old when the man appeared outside our house.
Not obviously threatening. Not carrying weapons or making demands. Just standing. On the sidewalk across from our property, partially obscured by the oak tree that had been there since we'd moved in decades ago.
Connor noticed him first.
He'd stopped by for what had become a weekly ritual coffee, conversation, the particular friendship of two people who'd survived significant things together and found ordinary companionship more valuable than either would have predicted.
"Don't turn around immediately," Connor said, his voice dropping to the particular register I recognized from years of actual danger. "But there's someone across the street. Been there forty minutes."
I didn't turn around immediately.
"Description?" I asked, keeping my voice as ordinary as the coffee cup I was holding.
