At seven on a cold Tuesday morning, I stood in my apartment doorway holding my four-year-old daughter on my hip while my seven-year-old son clung tightly to my leg. He was shaking. Not just nervous—terrified. I could feel it through the thin fabric of my pajama pants. The hallway outside was dim, the overhead light flickering like it might give out at any second. The air smelled of dust and old paint, and a cold draft slipped through the cracks in the doorframe, brushing against my skin. Then I heard it. Boots. Heavy. Steady. Climbing the stairs. One step. Then...
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