After my husband boarded a plane for a business trip, my six-year-old suddenly tugged my hand and whispered, “Mom… we can’t go back home. This morning I heard Dad on the phone, talking about something that involves us—and it didn’t sound right.” So we didn’t go back.

When I reached Sweet Auburn, the neighborhood was mostly dark. A single streetlamp flickered, casting weak light on brick buildings and quiet sidewalks. A 24-hour diner glowed at the corner, a few cars parked outside like little islands of safety.

Attorney Okafor’s office was in a narrow brick building with a plain door and a small buzzer.

Before I could press it, the door opened.

She stood there in jeans and a simple blouse, gray locs pulled back, reading glasses hanging on a chain around her neck. Her eyes were sharp enough to cut through lies.

“Ayira?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Come in,” she said. “Quickly.”

The moment we stepped inside, she locked the door.

One deadbolt.

Then another.

Then another.

The sound of those locks clicking into place did something to my nervous system. Not relief exactly, but a small loosening. Like my body had been braced for impact and finally found a wall that might hold.

The office smelled like paper and coffee. File boxes stacked against metal cabinets. Framed degrees from Howard and Emory lined the walls, and photos of civil rights marches hung beside them. The building felt like history and grit, a place where people fought to be believed.

She nodded toward a worn couch. “Put the boy there. Blanket’s on the chair.”

I lifted Kenzo gently. He stirred but didn’t wake fully. When I laid him down, his fingers curled around the edge of the blanket like he was grabbing onto something solid.

Attorney Okafor poured coffee into chipped mugs without asking if I wanted any. She handed one to me and pointed to the chair across from her desk.

“Sit,” she said. “Tell me everything. Start at the airport.”

So I did.

The words came out in jagged pieces at first. The brightness of the terminal. Quasi’s smile. Kenzo’s whisper. The van. The key. The gasoline. The fire climbing up the walls.

I showed her the text from Quasi, my hands shaking so badly I almost dropped my phone.

She listened without interrupting, her gaze steady, her face unreadable.

When I finished, I sat there breathing hard, like I’d run a mile.

The room hummed with the old air conditioner. Somewhere outside, a car passed slowly, bass thumping faintly.

Attorney Okafor leaned back in her chair.

“Your father asked me to watch out for you,” she said quietly.

My throat tightened. “He thought something like this would happen?”