Kalisa paced the narrow living room, her boots striking the concrete floor with restless urgency. Every few steps she would stop, rake a hand through her tangled hair, and glance toward the boarded windows as if expecting danger to materialize from the shadows outside.
Lisa sat on the old wooden chair, her posture calm but her eyes sharp, following her daughter's movements with the steady patience of someone who had lived through countless storms. In her hands rested a disassembled pistol she was cleaning, each motion deliberate and precise. The quiet rhythm of metal on cloth was the only sound in the room until Kalisa broke the silence.
"Mom, we can't just sit here," she said, voice tight with suppressed frustration. "Sherly's out there. Justin's out there, injured and Caleb… we don't even know what happened to him after the attack."
