Family in Savannah

Thank you to Melanie Foster for her medical advice.

Thank you to Julia Ferguson for such a brilliant stuffed animal concept, which helped add additional flavor to the story.

Many thanks to Daphine Glenn Robinson, Laura Haberman Ryan, Paul Haberman, Elaine C. Burkes, Jatanya Belnavis, Neil Vitro, Crystal Barnes, Zahrain 'Rainy' Peoples, Eileen Hamer, Neil and Ebony Phillips, Judith Aaron, Janet, and Frank DiMartino.

Missing Things

prelude

Thirty-one years ago – Savannah, Georgia.

Twenty-two-year-old Amber Kuhn clutched the keys to the rented house on Glenridge Drive with stars in her eyes and a hand on her back. The baby was due any day now. She walked like a mother-to-be with her hand on her back for support and a bulge in her front.

The old folks swore she was going to give birth to a boy due to the way she carried. Urban legend predicted the gender because the baby was low, her right breast was bigger than the left, and she had no acne.

The final test was her own. Purposely, she dropped the key to her new place—her proof of maximum independence. She closed her eyes and picked it up on the rounded base. Sure enough, the universe aligned: she was going to have a boy.

The house was pre-furnished with the owners' dining room set, couch, chairs, and kitchen utensils. He said something about moving into a new home across town. Renting out his all-paid-up property was for the extra cash.

She knew the home did not belong to her. That was okay. Others her age were still living with their parents or in a college dorm.

In regards to her parents, their relationship came to an end after the baby’s conception. Especially when she told them she was keeping the child.

The emotional strain of the subject also tested her relationship with her sister—the family pessimist.

Her sister thought Amber was foolish. In her sister’s opinion, she could have continued to get her degree, traveled, and did more with her life before having children.

Amber wanted it all: a new life, the baby, and the father— who assisted in arranging the rental.

He did not challenge her decision to keep the baby. In fact, he was quite accommodating over the past nine months, from doctor visits to pre-natal expenditures.

Her family would not accept that maybe she lucked out. She found a genuinely good guy.

After feeling about the kitchen, she stepped back into the narrow hallway that led past a door to a basement.

She opened the door and took a peek down the old wooden steps. A light switch at the top snapped upon with her touch—shining aged, yellowish light on an empty concrete floor, a workbench with some tools.

Also, a massive dog cage off to the side.

The owner, the town veterinarian, said he would have the cage moved in a few weeks if it was in the way. Amber had no intention of utilizing the creepy basement under no circumstances. She let him know it could stay right where it was.

The home had an upstairs with a single bedroom and bath. An old-style design with no room for a full family. Just enough for a single mother and her baby.

Just perfect.

I’ll take it. Amber agreed merrily, shaking her landlord’s hand.

Outside the open front door, the father of her child waited to hear the verdict. When it seemed like they had a deal, he handed the owner a wad of cash, said something about the first three months paid. He said he would get him more in a few weeks to cover the next six.

They were old drinking buddies. There was a great deal of trust between them.

Secrets and all.

Amber made it clear she would handle her own rent after that. Her job at the Waffle House was just down the road.

In a few days, Amber would give birth to a healthy, eight-and-a-half pound boy with as much red hair as his mother.

The brightest, deepest red she ever saw.

Months later …

Twenty-year-old Summer Kuhn would visit her sister, Amber, after a full day of classes every other week. She planned to be a teacher.

This week, she was bringing a care package from their folks. They disassociated themselves from Amber’s rebellious pregnancy—but made sure she had what she needed through ‘gifts.’

Summer was bone tired. On weekends, she worked at the local Walmart in addition to going to school. In her mind, if Amber could have a baby, get her own place, and have a job—who was she to complain?

Summer rarely complained about anything.

She had a key to her sister’s house, but out of respect, she preferred to knock first. Amber had a highly charged sexual lifestyle with the father of her child. Always better to play it safe.

On the first knock, the door creaked open on its own.

Ambie? Summer called out.

Opening the door wide, Summer thought she was in the wrong house.

The furniture was gone.

The kitchen was cleared out. Only the sink and refrigerator remained.

The house—upstairs and even the basement—was emptied.

Not everything.

The dog cage stood its ground.

Did Amber move? Without telling her? She had a lot of classes; work got in the way, yet still, the last time she saw her sister was two weeks ago. Everything seemed happy with her seven-month nephew.

She called the baby’s father.

Disconnected.

She spoke to the owner of the home.

He expressed genuine concern for losing a good tenant. He had no idea that Amber planned to skip town.

Immediately, Summer reported her sister and nephew missing.

She also had the unfortunate duty to tell her parents.

Twenty-eight years ago - Eglin Air Force Base, Fl.

A large vehicle idled next to a group of armed soldiers—standing guard. Their weapons were at the ready.

The time was three in the morning, and the loading of classified military arms was, officially, not happening.

The driver—Ulysses, age fifty-four, pounded on the steering wheel with a tune in his head. Singing all of it off tune. He was not officially there either.

Sounds of metal wrenching were going on behind his cab. The more they banged about, the more Ulysses envisioned his musical career going places.

He glanced out the side view mirrors to see men, forklifts, and cranes, guiding a thirty-foot crate to the cargo space behind him.

The weight of this beast rested dead center of the vehicle. The axels held steady.

Footsteps were heard walking up and down the interior, on top and behind his head. The soldiers were tying down the freight that was not supposed to exist—that no one was to talk about—because no one was out there doing this job—officially.

Two senior officers approached his driver’s side window, holding up a clipboard loaded with papers to sign.

Usually, Ulysses smiled at men who were not interested in being jovial, I like to inspect what I’m haulin’, know what I mean?

What? One of the men asked curiously, caught off guard by the extra conversation.

Ulysses flipped over each page. He signed every section that was noted with a colored arrow.

It felt like he was filing for divorce again. Or buying a home for his second wife out in Jacksonville.

Just yankin’ ya, fellas. Need ta know business. I don’t need ta know.

Sir. Thank you, sir. One of the officers saluted.

Be safe, sir. Another also saluted as Ulysses handed back the clipboard.

Who’re you salutin’ boys? I ain’t military. I have no rank. Hell, I’m not even supposed to be drivin’ this here load. Get me?

Yes, Colonel. Both men continued to salute, spun on their heels, and walked away.

Colonel Ulysses Coletrane Jethrow Chesterfield, the Third Esquire, heard the back of the rig receive two sharp bangs indicating he was ready to roll out.

He put the rig in gear, drumming on the steering wheel—kissing a chained, brass letter ‘X’ around his neck. He drove the vehicle out of the military enclosure, off the base—finding his way onto Eglin Blvd; took a right onto FL-189 and was into the night.

Ulysses beat on the wheel with a giddy smile, singing a tune from a classic Sam Cooke song. "I was born by the river in a little tent. Ohh and just like the river I've been running ev'r since.

"It's been a long time, a long time coming, Ulysses sang, tossing a prescription of anti-psychotic pills out the window—resuming his ride into the night. But I know a change gonna come, oh yes it will."

Eighteen Years Ago – Bryan County, Georgia.

The police have been searching for eight-year-old Abigail for weeks without results.

She’s the third disappearance in the region that year. Officials have demanded law enforcement across Savannah, and the surrounding territories, to double down on finding these missing children.

Sorting through hours of sickos, whackos, and perverts on the police tip line gained few leads in any of the cases.

Jaylin Trudie, age 15, went missing a few months back. The only available picture they had was of her looking a little bit more grown than her age, sending every pedophile into an extra frenzy—hampering the search.

Abigail was different. That one cut the deepest.

She looked her age, and the image passed around was of her hamming it up with two siblings in front of the family Cadillac.

The human attention span depended on how cute the missing child was.

This one was adorable.

The police had help from heartbroken members of the community that got out there in droves. Over 1,000 citizens in one town alone, to comb the thickets, swamps, and tall grass.

One evening, it went out on all the police bands that there was a discovery in Bryan County—far removed from the child’s home in Savannah—a ten minute trip by car up I-16 and I-95. A journey no eight-year-old would ever do alone—on foot.

The sheriff’s department of Bryan County had been aching to scoop the boys from Savannah.

The evidence they found was from a drainage system that led from 3,200-acres of private property. Ordinarily, the owner rankled the Bryan County political officials to no end with miles of red tape that obstructed their bigger plans for the land.

The landowner got in the way of their plans to line their pockets.

That made him the enemy of the state.

The evidence found on his property gave law enforcement the probable cause they were looking for to storm his estate.

What did they find?

The name Abby written on children’s underwear. Torn and blood-stained.

Seventeen years ago – Somewhere on I-95 – 3:09 a.m.

She was never going to let him hear the end of it.

For every painful moan from the back seat of their ’97 Buick LeSabre, Detective Antony ‘Tony’ Ciatoli—a transfer from New York’s finest to Savannah’s Metro—knew his wife would dig into him.

Every day for the rest of their forthcoming baby’s life.

Most of the highway was at a speed limit of seventy. When Greta started clawing at the headrest, he took out his badge in case the yokels inclined to pull him over for going 110-miles-per-hour.

He sat forward on the steering wheel to avoid Greta’s swinging hands.

He was not sure what state they were in or what town they zipped through. His GPS was old and breaking down—set on the trip to Savannah and unable to switch over to find a hospital due to some glitch.

Greta was not interested.

"I’m not going to make it to no goddamn hospital, you fuckin’ moron! Greta raged. This is your fuckin’ fault! I’m gonna have my goddamn baby in the middle of East Bumblefuck USA because you’re impatient Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr—SONOFABITCH!"

Take it easy, Gret. We’re almost someplace that can …

"Fuck you! Cunt, bitch FUCKER! Tell you what! Imma take your prick, stuff a goddamn watermelon up in your cock-hole and force it out of your ass! ONLY then will you understand the kind of shit I’m going through for you!"

Well, babe. You wanted to have this baby, too, you know … Tony caught himself. This was not the time for reasonable, level-headed conversations.

Greta swung on him, smacking the back of his head. He swerved the car taking the next available exit; following the street signs with a large blue and white letter ‘H.’

"Keep this mother fuckin’ car straight, you asshole! She screamed. That’s the problem with you. Now I see your fuckin’ plan. You wanted to leave New York, knowing full well that I was due any minute! You wanted to kill your baby and me in the redneck fields with the uncle fuckers! You know what? Fuck you! I’m having this baby right-the-fuck-NOW!"

No, wait! He panicked. You can’t have the baby now! I’m still drivin’!

Fuck you! Grrrrrrrrrrr! She gritted her teeth, opening her legs wider. Her fingernails ripped into the leather. FUCK YOUUUUU!!!

Tony pulled the car off the road and threw on the hazards. He jumped out the driver’s side—almost struck by a passing truck—sending his heart into his throat.

Unfortunately, Greta saw the whole thing.

Good for you, you rat bastard! Putting this demon in my fuckin’ stomach like this! Fuck you and your detective shit! Fuck you! Fuck you! Fuck you! Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!

Tony got in the backseat of the car with his wife and became a father that night.

For thirty minutes, he sat holding his daughter with both hands—umbilical cord and all—watching his exhausted wife sleep in a cramped position.

Welcome to the world, Meredith. Tony greeted his daughter.

God, I love you, Greta whispered weakly, eyes half-opened. Sweat matted her hair. She looked an awful mess. You ready to have another one?

Tony, in his usual way, said very little. It’s gonna be a good life.

The glow of the hospital emergency room ‘This Way’ arrow reflected on the hood, shining on the newest addition to the Ciatoli family.

Present Day - December 19th - Savannah – 10:30 p.m.

Trabreesha Clarke Whitney was on her cell phone.

She was always on her cell phone.

She was of the type that always had to talk to someone. She was always listening to voicemail. Always telling someone she had to Walmart and post it on Facebook. Always talking on the phone while getting dressed—with her cell phone crutched between her shoulder and her ear. She could open and close the door with one hand, fumble for the car keys to get in the car, start the ignition, drive down the block, almost hit another vehicle in front of her, and while cursing that driver out, still have the phone attached to her ear.

She would be delayed at a traffic light because she was listening to someone on her phone. Drove up the wrong way of the parking lot, waiting for another slow-moving driver yacking on their own cell phone, to get to the closest parking space—while talking on her cell phone.

She would get out of her car, talking on her phone while reaching for a shopping cart and talk about other people.

She would get another call and talk to Shaneefa ‘Little Boo’ Grady from around her way, keeping BranQueisha Harris—her original call—on hold; attempt to do a three-way discussion, disconnect Shaneefa and have to call BranQueisha back. Just as she tried to tap on the screen, there came the call from Catera Rice from Pomade Hair and Nails Salon.

Likely wanting to know when she was going to get paid the other half of her money.

She let that caller go straight to voicemail.

Trabreesha talked on the phone from the entrance of Walmart, through all of the supercenter’s grocery aisles.

She cruised through some much-needed paper towels and stationery because, as she was telling BranQueisha and Shaneefa, her daughter waited all day to say to her she had some art assignment for school. She was there to pick up some oak tag and ended up getting sidetracked for—

Then it dawned on her.

The oak tag.

Her daughter.

Both of them were not with her or in the cart.

Janeeka?

Earlier - 10:25 p.m.

Eight-year-old Janeeka Whitney lived a self-served life.

She was responsible for getting herself up in the morning because mommy usually had a friend sleeping over from the night before. She never saw who mommy’s friends were, but she could hear them—down the hall, behind mommy’s closed-door most nights. She only knew them from their voices, and it would be a different voice every other evening.

She learned to lay her clothes out for herself the night before. Sometimes that would take an extra hour or two, depending on whether or not the clothes were washed.

Some nights, mommy and her friends would be too loud—laughing, cursing, and moaning; making it hard for her to sleep. She often woke up late in the mornings.

The other day, she missed her bus.

The backup plan, if she was to ever miss the morning bus, was to knock on her neighbor’s door and get a ride with Mrs. Summer Warren—her teacher from the same elementary school.

Life with Mrs. Warren was—different.

Mrs. Warren often received Janeeka at her front door and ushered her in for a full breakfast of eggs, bacon, grits, orange juice, and anything else she might be hungry for.

Compared to a cold Pop-Tart at home—this was heaven.

Mrs. Warren would tell her and her family, ‘breakfast was the most important meal of the day.’

At the Warren breakfast table, the father, her son, and daughter—two seniors in high school—would talk to Janeeka, asking her about her interests and what she wanted to do when she grew up. She would take part in rousing conversations about current topics, movies, ideas, even the weather.

She would say goodbye to each of the Warren family members until she and Mrs. Warren were the only ones left in the house.

With time to spare, Mrs. Warren would help go over Janeeka’s homework, addressing any problems or concerns. She would encourage Janeeka to stay strong with her desires in life. She would tell the little girl that she believed in her.

She encouraged that the way to success started right now—at eight-years-old.

Throughout the year, Janeeka conveniently missed the bus almost all the time.

The other morning, Mrs. Warren suggested Janeeka create a poster for a school competition that celebrated the holidays. Janeeka knew about the contest but did not think she was a good enough artist.

Mrs. Warren encouraged her to do anything she put her mind to—showing her books with artists with funny names like Michelangelo or Picasso. Reminding her, even the great artists started like she did.

Janeeka was mesmerized. She never knew these people existed. She got it in her mind, maybe, she will be great too, one day.

That was the time Mrs. Warren surprised Janeeka with the greatest gift ever: a stuffed animal that, to this day, had never left her side.

Encased in a clear, plastic container—the brown and white plush lion was part of The King in Me collection by Georgia creative artist Julia Ferguson.

It was designed to promote, encourage, and affirm a sense of self-love, pride and inner courage with individual words of empowerment in a little pouch hung around the lion’s neck.

Whenever Janeeka felt alone or scared, she read one of seven hand-carved pieces of wood that would give her something to think about: honesty, belief, integrity, dream, love, confidence, and royalty.

She struggled to grasp every word in the pouch, but coming from Mrs. Warren, she knew they must have been good words, sounding-out the hard ones carefully.

Over time, she began to understand what the words meant and associated those words with what she wanted to be.

She would have told her mother she wanted to be an artist, but Janeeka was already going to make her mother mad that she needed stuff for the contest.

Asking Mrs. Warren was out of the question. Her neighbor had done enough.

Janeeka waited to make sure her mother was not going to have a friend over before asking for the supplies she needed. She asked between that short window of time the cell phone dislodged from her mother’s ear and the next phone call.

The annoyed look on her mother’s face was confusing. She hugged her stuffed lion even tighter.

The rule of the house—when mommy spoke on the phone—was do not interrupt her. Even if her fingers were on approach to the screen.

With a suck of her teeth and a heavy sigh, mommy said something about waiting all this time to ask me now—getting up from the couch and its forever molded butt impression.

All the while, talking on the phone.

Janeeka put on her pink and purple coat while her mother talked about men and other topics, hurrying to the front door before her mother left her behind.

She got in the car’s backseat, making sure her stuffed lion was strapped in next to her, listening to her mother talking about someone named Shaneefa—using a lot of B-words.

When her mother was delayed starting the car to give an extended version of events, Janeeka remembered she left her list of supplies in the house.

Unbuckling her lion, she opened the door, got out of the car, and closed it behind her—all ignored by Trabreesha and her angry phone call.

Janeeka dug out her key to the front door and ran inside, upstairs, and into her room to get the list.

By the time she returned downstairs, her mother was gone.

10:45 p.m.

Trabreesha was an unholy mess, yammering on her cell phone—she can’t find her baby—while searching aisle after aisle.

She will have spent fifteen minutes of intermittent calling for her daughter—while getting advice from BranQueisha—before a random Walmart employee decided to take the initiative. He asked why the woman in the curler-filled sleeping cap, pajama bottoms, and oversized Hulk Hogan t-shirt was screaming every other aisle.

It would take another ten minutes for them to find the manager, to get approval to call a Code Adam—which would block all the doors and entrances to prevent a missing child from strolling out the door.

It would be another fifteen minutes of angering customers who could not leave with any children before they realized Janeeka was not in the store.

Trabreesha had to call Daetaveus Nixon, Janeeka’s father, to tell him what’s going on.

Only after she finished posting the problem on Facebook.

Then Twitter …

Then Instagram …

She finally called the police.

10:35 p.m.

Whenever Janeeka worried, she caught a case of the hives that nothing her stuffed lion could do to help.

During her long walk down Middleground Road, she scratched at her chest and head. The little girl was more fearful of what her mother will say and do to her than walking alone at night.

Thus, she reasoned it best to walk the distance to catch up to her mother than be found waiting in the house, wasting her mother’s time.

She followed the same route her mother would take by car.

Needless to say, the path seemed much more pleasant by vehicle, during the day, from the backseat of a car.

At night, with few street lights to rely on—against a major roadway where an occasional truck would roar by—the eight-year-old was still more terrified of her mother than the pitch-black streets of Savannah.

Ahead of her, a patch of sidewalk ran against a wall of thick trees. She clutched her lion tighter than ever.

Passing cars would illuminate her forward momentum; to give her an idea of what was in her path when there were no other lights to depend on.

At the moment, there were no cars.

No street lights.

Only the moon and stars to guide her past the scary, shimmering trees, dancing from a light breeze.

Strange shadows paraded in front of her, cast from the semi-forest and moonbeams—looking like long, creepy fingernails reaching across the surface to snatch at her legs.

She buried her stuffed animal so close to her nose, she practically smelled the province in China it was made from.

She hurried her pace.

A car passed her by, brightened her way—fading off as it continued on, leaving a glowing red trail from its rear lights.

The cautious voice in her head reevaluated her decision to walk—slowing her pace. The numbers no longer added up. Plus, somehow, the streets found ways to get darker with every step.

With a decisive change of mind, Janeeka optioned to return back home and deal with her mother instead.

Another car approached.

This one slowed down as it got closer.

Janeeka liked the color of the car.

It had a smooth, shiny coat of blue.

Her favorite color.

The police were called in to take reports—a difficult process to do with Trabreesha still on her phone, calling and texting as many people as she could.

Many of her contacts were out of state. They could do as much help as those she tweeted on the other side of the world.

The officer continued asking her questions, receiving half replies, and vague answers. Since she found it more important to be on her phone, the officer was prepared to move on to more important duties. That was when some random Walmart employee suggested, possibly, the little girl was still at home.

Implying, maybe, if the mother was not as connected to reality right now, could she have forgotten her daughter?

Trabreesha took offense.

Complaining to Daetaveus, she loudly declared that the underpaid do-nothing employees that cannot find her baby in the first place, had the nerve to make it look like she was a careless mother.

Another call was coming in.

She had to put Daetaveus on hold and talk to her mama in Wichita.

Daetaveus, however, was not a fool.

Although he lived three-and-a-half hours away in Atlanta, he snatched up his keys, got in his car and sped down I-75 to join the search for his daughter.

Daetaveus would be too late.

The next day, Mrs. Summer Warren, heard the news of Janeeka’s disappearance. The loss hit her the most.

She lost yet another family member.

Search

Chapter 1

Fort Stewart – Liberty, Georgia – Earlier This Year.

Heads were going to roll.

Ammunition Specialist Derrick Fickerson ran from one storage unit to another desperately—as any man would seeking to keep his job.

He was at risk of being court-marshaled.

These were the days of heightened terroristic threats—both international and domestic. Since 9/11, the USAMC (United States Army Materiel Command) had painstakingly ridged rules in place for everything: strict accounting of ammunition used for training and those on the field. Every shot fired was accounted for.

In the mix of inflexible bookkeeping of dangerous materials, Derrick Fickerson only had one job.

Derrick was responsible for receiving, storing, and issuing conventional ammunition, guided missiles, large rockets, explosives, and other ammunition and explosive related items.

For the past sixteen hours, Derrick counted, recounted, and recounted seventeen storage units again across the entire base. He even counted, recounted, and recounted the overflow storage containers in the bunkers under the base that only a handful of people needed to know about.

After his eighteenth trip about the base, drenched in sweat, Derrick returned to his office to regroup his thoughts.

Those still on duty for this latter part of the summer watched him silently.

Derrick looked insane.

Specialist? Called one of his fellow soldiers.

He spilled his cup of water, jumping out of his skin. What?!

What’s going on, partner? The soldier approached cautiously.

Derrick wiped away the sweat, taking the closest seat he could find.

I … He stuttered. "I seem to have—undercounted a … a few things."

Undercounted? Inventory not shaping up like it should? It’s probably those boys over at …

Derrick showed him his clipboard.

The soldier thumbed through a few pages. Everything looked in order. M16 material at a little low, but there was a good deal of training going on over the weekend; nothing surprising.

Then he saw it.

Flipping pages back and forth, he started to shake.

This can’t be right. You must have just forgotten to …

Eighteen times. Derrick gazed up at the soldier.

Well, well … He stammered. You got to recheck it. You need to count, recount, and …

"Eighteen fucking times!!!!" Derrick snatched at the soldier’s shirt.

Who’d you tell? The soldier begged.

You. Just you. I’ve been looking all day, man. I swear!

The soldier ripped himself free of Derrick’s grip, running over to his Commanding Officer’s desk.

The CO was told the problem and ordered Derrick held under armed guard until this got sorted out.

He rushed the problem to the Battalion Commanding Officer, a Lieutenant Colonel who was already packing the back of his car for vacation.

After hearing what was missing from the ordinance stockade, he knew he was not going anywhere anytime soon.

His Brigade Commander, Colonel Grace, was already off-base and—when called out of a family gathering to discuss absent ammunition and explosives—showed very little of his namesake. Especially toward the low man on the totem pole—Derrick Fickerson.

A lot of explosives and one weapon of mass destruction was dangerously missing.

He surrounded himself with teams of high ranking individuals. Each one demanded to know how thirty tons of Composition C-4, and one GBU-43/B Massive Ordnance Air Blast large-yield conventional missile (MOAB)—30 feet long weighing in at twenty-two thousand pounds with blast power just short of nuclear—could vanish.

Gone.

Without a trace.

No one was expected to get any rest until they counted, recounted, and recounted some more.

Savannah, Georgia - December 22nd – 5:30 p.m.

Summer Warren jabbed her finger into her mouth the moment she felt the pain.

She was stapling pictures of Janeeka Whitney on poles around her neighborhood. Some of the posts had old, rusted staples from previous searches of missing dogs, cats, and people.

She stopped to nurse her finger with a stack of photocopies under her arm, watching a family across the street, happily walking together in their family glow.

Janeeka wouldn’t be able to go anywhere anymore.

The guilt she carried over her missing neighbor was a constant cloud that blurred her vision—often making her cry.

To help unload the burden of sorrow, she volunteered to post photos of Janeeka—one of her in a flannel pajama set holding her stuffed lion.

The very one she bought for her.

She hoped others would have seen her, offering a reward for any information leading to the safe return.

Summer was about to continue her tireless work when a man came up behind with a Thermos of coffee.

Right on time. Summer thanked her husband, Adian. She took the coffee, letting him take the stationary off her hands. I just need to cover the next two blocks. That should do it for the night.

Is that so? He sighed, looking back at how she blanketed every car and pole as far as the eye could see. You’re putting in a lot of work.

Someone must have seen her. She sipped her drink.

"What has her mother been doing?"

Summer looked over the brim of her thermos cup with a dry expression. I don’t know. She downed the contents of the cup, covered the lid, taking back her supplies. I haven’t spoken to her.

"I thought maybe it’s time for her to be out here like you are. I mean, after all, she is the mother."

Is that what you’re thinking? She walked away toward the next pole. Not before putting a sheet under the windshield wiper of a parked car.

Yes. All of us actually. He readied himself for a fight. "Me. The kids. You know? Your family."

Summer stopped, looking up to the sky. She was more annoyed now than when she pricked her finger. I’m trying to help.

I’m not stopping you. He held his hands up in defense. We all know what Janeeka meant to you.

So, you see why I’m out here.

"Yes. That’s why the mother should be out here, too. Meanwhile, our family is looking at me and wondering what’s for dinner."

At first, she was going to hit him with the what’s wrong with you? You can cook response. Then she remembered, tending to the house, caring for her family, preparing a healthy meal was her thing.

Her family was the