For a second, the world narrowed to black letters on white paper.
Then everything widened.
The police call had never been about a toy.
It had been a prop.
A record they could point to.
A scare they could use.
A leash.
My mother had not lost control that day.
She had been trying to take mine.
A car slowed at the curb.
Then a white police cruiser pulled up behind it.
Kendra’s head snapped around.
My mother hissed, “What did you do?”
“I called the non-emergency line when you started pounding,” I said.
The officer who stepped out was the older one from my mother’s living room.
He recognized all of us.
His eyes moved from my phone to Charlotte behind my hip, then to the folder in Kendra’s hand.
“Ma’am,” he said to my mother, “step back from the door.”
My mother looked offended.
