abet

lly cleared probate, and the only way to claim the apartment she'd left me was to sign the papers in person. The familiar wail of

-year-old son, Zane, sat cross-legged on the living room rug, his

ckey mascot plushie and trotted over to my l

Lily wants

r a warm cup of juice, though my eyebrows knitted together as

apped the edge of

Don't hack into any dangerous nod

ica of Brock's-his expression far too mature

just checking the

ly gasped, accidentally spilling her juice onto the rug

e glass coffee table; he flipped his screen back open, hit t

bullied Mommy. H

riffin Sports Group headquarters in Midtown Manhattan, where the boar

hor excitedly praising Brock for leading the New York

callus on my right index finger from years of h

er plushie, toddled over, and wrapped he

uffocating memories, hugged my daughter

adquarters flickered weirdly on our TV,

nnel buttons repeatedly, only to find every singl

mall fingers typed one final command, locking the remot

he financial spreadsheets shattering into static whi

o the broadcast screen, swinging a hockey stick and smashing i

as bold red letters flashed across the scre

membered the doodle Zane had drawn on the plane last

, who was casually stuffing his laptop in

lammed my hand dow

ain yoursel

tly, trying to bluff

d server outage from t

k match your drawing millimeter for millimeter,"

antly opened the laptop and tapped a few k

showing a sweating news anchor apol

breath and gripped

d that group's cybersecurity team is ruth

muttering und

wet paper. I didn't even us

obbed with a s

ectronics for a month. Hand

usly bit her index finger and shuffled in fro

who were my entire world, I sighed helpl

ckout curtains shut, blocking out the distant M

a single broadcast was enou

e let out a faint beep, and a red skull icon began flash