The doorbell rang a third time, and the politeness was gone.
“If you do not open the door,” the voice announced coldly, “we will cut power to the entire unit.”
A sharp sound followed, and the lights went out.
The apartment was plunged into darkness, and my daughter began to cry from her room, her small voice cutting through the silence like a blade.
“Do not turn on your phone light,” my husband said urgently. “Do not let them see where you are.”
I rushed to my daughter and pulled her into my arms, covering her mouth gently as her body trembled against mine, while I listened to muffled voices outside the door, lower now, less cautious.
“There is definitely a child inside,” one voice said.
“Move faster,” another replied.
Tears stung my eyes as I whispered into the phone that I was scared, and for the first time his voice cracked when he told me that he knew.
“If they get inside, go to the bathroom,” he instructed softly. “There is a small window there, and you must leave the phone behind.”
“And you,” I asked desperately.
“I will call you again when it is safe,” he replied.
Metal scraped against the lock, and I squeezed my eyes shut, bracing myself for the sound of the door giving way.
Then my phone vibrated violently in my hand. Another call was coming in. From my husband.
Confusion washed over me as I answered instinctively.
“Are you calling me right now,” I whispered.
On the line I had been on moments earlier, his voice sounded panicked.
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