“You picked the house beside Marcus Hale?”
“We did,” Owen said.
“Is there a problem?”
She hesitated.
“I suppose you’ll find out soon enough.”
Before we could ask what she meant, she went back inside.
An hour later, another neighbor appeared carrying chocolate-chip cookies.
“I always bring these to new families.”
Then her smile faded.
“Nobody warned you?”
“About what?”
She looked toward the tall cedar fence separating our yard from the property next door.
“The father.”
“What about him?”
“He’s raising seven children alone.”
I blinked.
“Seven?”
She nodded.
“The oldest is sixteen.”
She lowered her voice.
“The youngest just turned five.”
“That sounds exhausting.”
“It is.”
Then she said something I did not understand.
“You’ll hear the whistle every morning.”
5:00 A.M.
The following morning, I learned exactly what she meant.
At precisely five o’clock, a sharp whistle cut through the silence of Hawthorn Lane.
I rolled over in bed.
I expected children complaining.
Maybe shouting.
Maybe someone crying about being woken up too early.
Instead, complete silence followed.
Curiosity pulled me out of bed.
I stepped onto our back porch.
Seven children stood in a perfectly straight line across the neighboring yard.
The oldest girl stood first.
Beside her were two boys.
Then another girl.
Another boy.
A younger girl.
