They just had to find it.
I read that sentence again and again.
The children had been asking for help every Sunday.
Not with words.
With patterns.
With nervous glances.
With a trash bag that never seemed full.
Months later, Laura returned once with a police escort to collect the last of their belongings.
Mia walked over to me.
“You opened it,” she said.
“I did.”
“Were you scared?”
“Yes.”
She nodded.
Then she admitted something.
“I thought you might throw it away.”
“Why would I?”
“Adults throw things away when they think children are causing trouble.”
I crouched beside her.
“You weren’t causing trouble.”
“We hid things in people’s yards.”
“You were putting the truth somewhere it could survive.”
Before leaving, Mia reached into her pocket and handed me another flash drive.
“This one’s empty.”
“Why give it to me?”
“So you remember to look under the leaves.”
I closed my hand around it.
“I will.”
Mia and Ben no longer clean our street on Sundays.
