When I pulled up to Meadowbrook Elementary in my son’s silver Honda Accord, I was running exactly twelve minutes late. Traffic had been heavier than expected, and I’d spent the last three miles mentally rehearsing my apology to Lily, my eight-year-old granddaughter who hated waiting. She was the kind of child who noticed when you were even five minutes behind schedule, who’d stand at the pickup zone with her arms crossed and her face set in that particular expression of dignified disappointment that somehow made you feel like you’d failed a test you didn’t know you were taking.
But when she slid into the backseat, she didn’t mention the time. She didn’t ask why I was late or complain that all the other kids had already left. She just clutched her backpack to her chest like a shield and went very, very quiet.
“Hey there, ladybug,” I said, using my cheerful grandmother voice, the one I saved for scraped knees and bad dreams. “How was school?”
Lily didn’t answer right away. She was staring at the back of the driver’s seat with an intensity that made my chest tighten.
Her small hands gripped the backpack straps so hard her knuckles had gone white. “Lily?” I tried again, glancing at her in the rearview mirror. “Everything okay?”
She looked up, and her eyes—those wide, dark eyes that had always reminded me of my son Ethan when he was young—locked onto mine with an expression I’d never seen before.
Not quite fear. Something closer to recognition, like she’d walked into a room and found something that shouldn’t be there. “Grandma,” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the hum of the engine, “this car feels wrong.”
I laughed, but it came out strained, almost nervous.
“Wrong how, sweetheart? It’s just Daddy’s car. The same one he drives you to school in every morning.”
She shook her head, quick little movements like a bird.
“No. It’s different. It smells different.
And it’s too quiet.”
“Too quiet?” I repeated, trying to understand. Cars were supposed to be quiet. That was generally considered a good thing.
Lily leaned forward, dropping her voice to barely above a whisper, as if she was afraid the car itself might overhear. “Like it’s listening to us.”
A chill ran down my spine despite the warm May afternoon. Kids said strange things sometimes—I knew that.
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