For a split second, I froze—and in that second, I understood how danger really works. Not loud. Not obvious. Quiet, precise, already in motion before you can think.
Then Eli pulled my hand. “Not the front. The basement door is open.”
We ran.
Halfway down the stairs, the smell hit—sharp, unmistakable. Gas. Fresh. Intentional. The basement was dark, but enough light filtered in to reveal what I needed to see: a disconnected gas line, a timer clipped to a utility box, wires running toward the ignition.
My legs nearly gave out.
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