"Why?"
"Because you're the one who needs the reminder."
For a moment, he could not speak. Then he nodded.
"Fair enough."
Nia kept her father's Bible instead. That was enough. Three years after the raid, a new family moved into the house at the end of Maple Grove Drive. They had two small boys who rode bicycles too fast and left chalk all over the sidewalk. One afternoon, a patrol car slowed near them.
Nia was watering the hydrangeas. She watched automatically. The officer rolled down his window.
"Helmets, gentlemen," he called.
The boys groaned and pointed toward helmets hanging from their handlebars.
"On your heads, not your bikes."
They complied. The officer waved and drove on. Nothing happened. Nia stood there holding the garden hose and realized her shoulders had tightened anyway. Then they relaxed.
That was progress, too. Not never remembering. Remembering without being trapped inside the memory.
That night, she sat on the porch with Tessa, now home between reporting assignments. The street was quiet. Porch lights glowed. Evelyn's silhouette moved behind her curtains next door.
"You know what I think about sometimes?" Tessa asked.
"That's a dangerous opening."
"Kessler saying nobody was coming to save you."
Nia looked toward the lawn where he had stood.
"I remember."
"He was wrong."
Nia considered it.
"Partly."
"Partly? Mom, half the county showed up."