It was a gray California morning, the kind that settles into your bones with an eerie weight. My one-year-old son, Jamie, was bundled in his stroller, his breath fogging the plastic cover. He had burned with a fever all night, and nothing I did seemed to bring it down.
Since my wife passed during childbirth, I’ve been raising Jamie alone, trying to be both mother and father. It wasn’t easy, but I had no choice.
The bus screeched to a stop, and I climbed in, struggling to lift the stroller up the steps. The driver looked annoyed but didn’t say anything. I took a seat near the front, exhausted, my thoughts spinning between doctor bills and Jamie’s fever.
At the next stop, an older woman climbed aboard. She was wrapped in flowing skirts, her arms adorned with clinking bangles. She hesitated at the fare box, digging through a worn-out purse.
“I don’t have enough for the fare,” she murmured, her voice tinged with embarrassment.
The driver scowled. “I’M NOT A CHARITY. IF YOU DON’T HAVE THE MONEY, YOU CAN WALK.”
The woman’s face reddened as she glanced around, desperate.
Without thinking, I pulled a few dollars from my pocket. “I’ll cover it,” I said.
Her dark eyes locked onto mine, intense and searching. Then, she nodded. “Thank you.” She shuffled to the back of the bus, her presence quiet but heavy.
I didn’t think much of it after that.
The Note
As I exited the bus, carefully steering Jamie’s stroller down the steps, I felt a light touch on my arm. I turned.
The woman stood there, her eyes knowing, almost sad.
She pressed a folded piece of paper into my hand. “You’ll need this,” she said softly.
Before I could ask anything, she stepped back onto the bus. The doors hissed shut, and she was gone.
I stared down at the crumpled note, confused but too preoccupied with Jamie to think much of it.
It wasn’t until we sat in the clinic’s waiting room, Jamie dozing in my lap, that I remembered.
I unfolded the paper. My stomach dropped.
The Warning
Scrawled in jagged handwriting were three chilling words:
“DO NOT GO HOME.”
I stared at it, my pulse hammering. What the hell did that mean?
A cold shiver crawled up my spine. I glanced down at Jamie, his little face flushed but peaceful.
Then my phone buzzed. A text from my neighbor.
“Hey, man, fire trucks are outside your apartment. Smoke everywhere. Are you okay??”
My hands went numb.
I looked down at the note again, my breath catching.