I looked around at the neighborhood, the street signs I couldn’t see clearly in the dark, the chaos near the burning house. I realized with sudden humiliation that I didn’t even know how to describe where I was.
“My house is burning,” I said. “Buckhead. I’m on a side street behind it. We’re safe for the moment.”
“Can you drive?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Then listen carefully,” she said. “Get in your car right now. Do not talk to neighbors. Do not talk to police. Do not answer your husband. Drive to this address.”
She gave me a location in Sweet Auburn, her words crisp, as if she’d given directions to frightened women before.
“Come now,” she added. “And Ayira. If anyone calls you, you do not pick up. Not even family. Understand?”
My stomach knotted, but I nodded anyway, even though she couldn’t see me.
“Yes.”
“Good. Go.”
I hung up and sat for half a second, letting the phone drop into my lap like it weighed a hundred pounds.
Kenzo’s voice came small from beside me. “Mama?”
I looked at him. “We’re leaving,” I said. “We’re going somewhere safe.”
His shoulders sagged in relief, and I hated myself for every time I’d brushed him off before. For every time I’d treated his fear like imagination.
I started the SUV and drove away from the burning street without looking back.
The city felt different after midnight. Atlanta still glowed, but in a quieter way. Streetlights blurred past, orange and soft. The freeway was emptier, the sound of tires on asphalt a steady hiss. Kenzo fell asleep in the back seat, his dinosaur backpack hugged tight against his chest like armor.
I kept checking my mirrors, paranoid, expecting headlights to follow. Every car that merged behind me felt like a threat.
When I reached Sweet Auburn, the neighborhood was mostly dark. A single streetlamp flickered, casting weak light on brick buildings and quiet sidewalks. A 24-hour diner glowed at the corner, a few cars parked outside like little islands of safety.
Attorney Okafor’s office was in a narrow brick building with a plain door and a small buzzer.
Before I could press it, the door opened.
She stood there in jeans and a simple blouse, gray locs pulled back, reading glasses hanging on a chain around her neck. Her eyes were sharp enough to cut through lies.
“Ayira?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Come in,” she said. “Quickly.”
The moment we stepped inside, she locked the door.
One deadbolt.
Then another.
Then another.
The sound of those locks clicking into place did something to my nervous system. Not relief exactly, but a small loosening. Like my body had been braced for impact and finally found a wall that might hold.
The office smelled like paper and coffee. File boxes stacked against metal cabinets. Framed degrees from Howard and Emory lined the walls, and photos of civil rights marches hung beside them. The building felt like history and grit, a place where people fought to be believed.
She nodded toward a worn couch. “Put the boy there. Blanket’s on the chair.”
I lifted Kenzo gently. He stirred but didn’t wake fully. When I laid him down, his fingers curled around the edge of the blanket like he was grabbing onto something solid.
Attorney Okafor poured coffee into chipped mugs without asking if I wanted any. She handed one to me and pointed to the chair across from her desk.
“Sit,” she said. “Tell me everything. Start at the airport.”
So I did.
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