She was already crossing the street before you could protest. The Wilkerson house stood before you—a two-story with chipped paint and a lawn that looked like it had seen better days.

The door swung open. A woman stood there, broad-shouldered, with sharp eyes that swept over both of you in an instant.

Out of the corner of your eye, you caught movement. Three faces pressed against the living room window, staring. Two older boys and a smaller one, their expressions ranging from curiosity to something like mischief.

A shuffling sound. The front door creaked open wider as three figures emerged behind their mother.