My grandson ran upstairs from the basement, pale and shaking. “Grandma, pack your things. We need to leave — now.” I frowned. “Why? What happened?” He whispered, “Please… just trust me.” Twenty minutes later, my phone wouldn’t stop ringing. It was my children. And when I saw the names flashing on the screen, my heart sank.

My grandson, Owen, came back up from the basement, his footsteps heavy on the old wooden stairs. His face was pale, drawn tight with an emotion I couldn’t immediately place. He sat down across from me at the kitchen table, the table my late husband, Walter, had built with his own hands forty years ago. He didn’t speak for a long moment, just stared at me, his eyes dark with something that looked like fear.