Laura had hidden fear.
Bruises.
Plans.
She had told herself silence kept the children safe.
“Your mother was surviving,” I said. “You were all surviving.”
Mia considered that.
Then she reached into her pocket and handed me something.
A flash drive.
I stared at it.
“This one is empty,” she said. “You can keep it.”
“Why?”
“So you remember to look under the leaves.”
I closed my hand around it.
“I will.”
The children no longer clean our street on Sundays.
The neighbors do.
It started with Mrs. Alvarez carrying one bag.
Then Mr. Patel joined her.
Now nearly a dozen of us walk the block every weekend.
We pick up cans, wrappers, and whatever the wind brings.
But we also look.
At the houses.
At one another.
At the things that seem slightly wrong.
We have learned that a clean street can still hide terrible things.
And that the children everyone praised for being responsible were carrying a responsibility no child should have had.
