I learned young how to read a room before anyone admitted it had turned dangerous.
By the time I walked back into my mother’s kitchen, I had read rooms in places Silas could not pronounce without stumbling.
I had led operations through static, smoke, political pressure, and the kind of silence that comes after everyone understands the cost of being wrong.
And still, stepping through that back door made my chest tighten.
Not with fear.
With recognition.
The house smelled like burned coffee and pot roast.
Linda hugged me with one arm.
Her other hand stayed on her phone.
“You look tired,” she said.
