Armstrong's POV
The garage was quiet after they left. The scent of cut grass and motor oil hung in the air. I listened to their laughter fade into the house, the back door clicking shut. The echo of it felt thin. Fragile.
My hands, which had been steady while pretending to be scared, now trembled just slightly as I put the tools away. Each wrench, each socket had its place. Order. Control. That's what kept the walls up.
I needed to hear it. I needed the update.
Pulling my phone from my pocket, I walked to the far corner of the garage, near the dusty freezer. I leaned against the cold metal and dialed a number I knew by heart. It rang three times.
"Yes?"
"Report," I said, my voice low. "Any progress?"
The sigh on the other end was answer enough. "Nothing concrete. A possible sighting of the old man in Oregon two months ago turned out to be a retired dentist. The trail for the children is… ice cold. It's like they vanished into the earth."
