“What happened?” Marcus asked quietly.
Amara’s jaw clenched. “My uncle got in trouble,” she said. “Not like… bad trouble. But trouble. He got taken away.”
Marcus felt anger rise, not at her uncle, not at the system, but at the way children got dragged through adult disasters.
“And your mom?” Evelyn asked softly.
Amara’s eyes glistened. “She tries,” she whispered. “But she disappears sometimes. Like she’s there and then she’s not there. I don’t know where she goes in her head.”
Evelyn reached out slowly. “Where is she now?”
Amara’s lips trembled. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “Last time I saw her, she told me to stay behind the store and wait. She said she’d come back.”
“How long ago?” Marcus asked, voice tight.
Amara’s shoulders hunched. “A while.”
Oliver’s voice shook. “You’ve been waiting?”
Amara looked away. “You don’t just stop waiting,” she said. “If you stop, then it means you admit…”
She didn’t finish.
Marcus knew what she meant.
It means you admit the person isn’t coming.
Evelyn’s hand hovered near Amara’s shoulder, then settled gently, asking permission more than taking it.
Amara stiffened at first, then didn’t pull away.
Marcus watched and realized Evelyn was learning too. Learning that control didn’t heal fear. Presence did.
“We’re going to meet with the social worker,” Marcus said quietly. “Not to send you away. To find out what options you have. To find your mom. To find your family. To make sure you’re safe.”
Amara’s eyes narrowed again. “And if they say I can’t come here?”
Marcus didn’t lie. “Then we fight for a better answer,” he said.
Amara stared at him, searching for the trick.
Oliver lifted the banana sword like an oath. “We fight,” he declared.
Amara’s mouth twitched slightly. A tiny almost-smile, quickly hidden.
“Okay, General,” she murmured. “We fight.”
The social worker, Marisol Reyes, arrived the next day with a calm face and tired eyes.
She was kind, but she was not starstruck. Marcus respected that instantly.
She asked questions.
Where did Amara sleep? (Behind the store, cardboard.)
Did she have guardians? (Not present.)
Was she enrolled in school? (Yes, technically, though attendance was inconsistent.)
How long had she been visiting? (Most days after school.)
Did Marcus understand the legal implications? (He did now.)
Marisol watched Oliver and Amara together, watched how Oliver’s laughter came easier around her, how Amara’s shoulders loosened when Oliver spoke.
Then Marisol said something that hit Marcus in the throat.
“She trusts him,” Marisol said softly, nodding toward Oliver. “Not you. Not your house. Him.”
Marcus nodded. “I know.”
Marisol’s gaze was steady. “You can’t keep a child here without a plan,” she said. “But you can help her build one.”
Evelyn exhaled slowly, as if grateful for a path.
Marisol laid out steps: locate Amara’s mother. Check shelters, hospitals, community centers. Confirm if any relatives could take custody. If not, explore kinship placement or foster care.
Amara sat rigid through the conversation, jaw clenched, eyes hard.
When Marisol mentioned foster care, Amara’s hand tightened around her backpack strap until her knuckles went white.
“No,” she said flatly.
Marisol didn’t argue. She nodded. “I hear you,” she said. “We’ll try other ways first.”
Amara’s eyes flicked up, surprised.
Marcus realized something: being listened to was rare enough that it startled her.
After Marisol left, Amara stayed quiet.
Oliver rolled closer. “You’re still a warrior,” he whispered.
Amara’s eyes shone, and she blinked hard. “Yeah,” she said. “I know.”
But Marcus could feel the air shifting, like a storm gathering.
Because the moment adults with clipboards entered the story, the world stopped being a game and became what Amara feared most.
A system.
And systems had a habit of swallowing small people whole.
The day Amara disappeared, the sky was the color of bruised metal.
Marcus came home early, again, because he’d started doing that. He’d started choosing the house over the office.
He walked through the mansion and heard silence.
No laughter.
No feet running.
He moved faster.
Oliver’s door was open. Oliver sat by the patio, eyes fixed on the gate.
“Where is she?” Marcus asked, dread rising.
Oliver’s voice cracked. “She didn’t come.”
Marcus’s stomach dropped. “Maybe she’s late.”
Oliver shook his head. “She’s never late.”
Evelyn entered behind Marcus, face pale. “I called the school,” she said quietly. “They said she left at the usual time.”
Marcus’s throat tightened. “Cal,” he called sharply.
Cal appeared within seconds. “Sir.”
“Check the cameras,” Marcus said. “All angles. Street. Gate.”
Cal nodded and disappeared.
Marcus looked at Oliver. Oliver’s hands clenched in his lap, knuckles white.
“She said foster care people come and take you,” Oliver whispered, voice shaking. “She said when people say ‘help,’ sometimes it’s a trap.”
Marcus closed his eyes. He saw Amara’s face yesterday, the way she’d gone rigid at the mention of foster care.
“She’s scared,” Evelyn whispered.
Marcus nodded. “I know.”
Cal returned, face grim. “Sir,” he said, “she came to the gate at three fifteen. She stood there for a minute. Then she turned around and ran.”
Marcus’s chest tightened like a fist closing.
“She ran,” Oliver echoed, voice breaking. “Because of us?”
“No,” Marcus said quickly, kneeling beside Oliver. “Not because of you. Never because of you.”
Oliver’s eyes filled with tears. “She promised she’d come.”
Marcus felt something ancient and furious rise in him.
Not at Amara.
At the world that taught children promises were dangerous.
“We’re going to find her,” Marcus said, voice steady. “Right now.”
Evelyn blinked. “Marcus, it’s starting to rain—”
“Now,” Marcus repeated.
Oliver looked up, desperate. “I want to come.”
Marcus hesitated. The weather was turning. The streets were wet. But Oliver’s face wasn’t asking for a ride.
It was asking not to be left behind again.
Marcus swallowed. “Okay,” he said. “We’ll go together.”
Evelyn grabbed a coat, grabbed Oliver’s rain cover, grabbed keys with hands that shook. Cal went with them, along with one other security officer, but Marcus didn’t let them take over.
This wasn’t a security operation.
It was a rescue mission.
They drove past gleaming storefronts and coffee shops and people hurrying under umbrellas. The city looked normal, like it wasn’t hiding children behind abandoned stores.
Then they turned onto a street that smelled like old rain and forgotten things.
The abandoned grocery store sat like a dead building, windows boarded, sign faded. Behind it, the alley opened into a strip of cracked concrete and weeds.
Marcus stepped out into the cold drizzle.
Oliver rolled beside him, rain cover rattling lightly. Evelyn walked close, one hand on Oliver’s chair, the other clutching her coat.
“Amara!” Marcus called.
His voice echoed off brick.
No answer.
They moved deeper into the alley.
Marcus’s shoes sank slightly in mud near the back wall. He looked down and saw flattened cardboard, dark with rain.
Evidence of a small life.
Oliver’s breath hitched. “She sleeps here,” he whispered.
Evelyn covered her mouth, tears slipping free.
Marcus’s chest felt like it was being crushed.
“Amara!” Marcus shouted again, louder, letting the sound break open.
A movement flickered near a stack of pallets.
Amara’s face appeared, pale and guarded, eyes wide like a trapped animal.
She held the banana sword.
Even now.
“Go away,” she said, voice shaking.
Oliver rolled forward. “No,” he whispered. “Please.”
Amara’s gaze snapped to Oliver, and something in her expression cracked.
“You shouldn’t be here,” she whispered.
Oliver’s eyes filled. “You left.”
Amara flinched. “I didn’t… I had to.”
Marcus stepped forward slowly, hands visible, palms open.
“We’re not here to take you,” he said. “We’re here because we care.”
Amara’s laugh came out harsh. “Care doesn’t last.”
Evelyn’s voice broke. “It can,” she whispered. “It can if we choose it.”
Amara looked at her, eyes shining with a pain too big for ten years old.
“You don’t know what it’s like,” Amara whispered. “People like you… you don’t.”
Evelyn nodded slowly. “You’re right,” she said. “I don’t.”
She took a shaky breath. “But I know what it’s like to watch my child suffer and not know how to fix it. And I know what it’s like to realize the world is cruel in ways I didn’t want to see.”
Amara’s grip tightened on the banana.
Oliver rolled closer, wheels slipping slightly in the wet dirt. The chair tilted a bit, and Oliver’s breath caught in fear.
Amara reacted instantly.
She darted forward and grabbed the chair frame, steadying it with strength that surprised Marcus.
“Careful,” Amara snapped, voice fierce.
Oliver blinked at her. “You’re still here,” he whispered.
Amara’s eyes flickered. “I’m here,” she said, like it cost her something to admit.
Marcus saw it then: even in fear, Amara’s instinct was to protect Oliver.
Warrior stuff.
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