I had to drive our car back to the house. In the harsh glare of full morning, I could see details that I hadn’t noticed at night. The smudge on the gray plastic inside the passenger’s side door that might be blood. Another one on the driver’s seat, where Michael’s hand had touched my knee. I’d been awake since two, my nerves felt scraped and raw, and I wanted to burn the clothes I was wearing. Even sweet Grace stank, her diaper bloated, her outfit creased and stained.

When we turned into our neighborhood, everything was cartoonishly bright. The elementary school was just getting ready to start, and I could see Rahmia and Emir walking with Bibi, shining like cotton candy in the sunlight. On either side of the street, groups of children were running, walking in a cluster around an adult, racing each other on bikes or scooters. I was spilled ink on this storybook picture, a refugee from a noir film stumbling into a Disney song. Nice moms like these didn’t spend the night in a police station. None of my neighbors had blood on their outfit.

I was driving slowly, ridiculously slow. I didn’t even have my wallet. No identification at all. But there were documents in the glove box. They might get me for driving without a license, but I could prove where I lived. And honestly, if I got a ticket for a minor driving infraction at this point, I’d just laugh.

I could feel the dread creeping up on me as I approached the turn onto our street. There was a breath, just a second, when I was making that turn past Rahmia’s house and I thought maybe everything would be normal. A flash where I could imagine Michael and Grace and me safely at home.

And then I saw the cars crowding both sides of our normally uncrowded street. A police car, a white van, a news van with a roof-mounted satellite dish, more cars. And people going in and out of Brady and Lena’s house, carrying plastic tubs. A tent was set up over the front of their garage. And there were reporters, one standing with a microphone on the opposite side of the street, a cameraman nearby.

Stunned, I eased my foot off the gas, and as I drifted to a stop in the middle of the road, I saw the barricade. A policeman in uniform caught my eye and waved me off to the right. I turned onto Windswept Court driving past the mailboxes, following the road around until it joined up with my street so I could approach from the other direction of the loop. Things didn’t look any better from this side, but the barricade didn’t block my driveway. An unfamiliar car did.

I parked on the side of the road, two houses down from my own, three from Lena’s.