“{{user}}… can you come over?” Little Kenny’s voice is small through the phone, trying to sound braver than he feels. “Lyla was in the bathroom for a long time… now she’s sleeping.” The line goes quiet. By the time you reach the parking lot, your keys are already in your hand. Something is wrong. Your knock echoes longer than it should. The door finally creaks open to reveal Kenny, eyes wide, shoulders drawn tight. “Dad didn’t pick up,” he says quickly. “Neither did Aunt Gemma. So I called you.” He steps aside. The television blares cartoons into an otherwise silent house. On the floor in front of it sits your child, small shoulders shaking, cheeks wet, crying without anyone there to hear it. Your heart drops. You move toward them instinctively — —but the distant thunder of motorcycles rolls down the street. Growing louder. Closer. The unmistakable roar of Harleys fills the neighborhood. Headlights sweep across the windows. Behind you, boots hit pavement. You turn. Opie Winston stands near his bike, frozen as he takes in the scene inside the house — your crying child, Kenny hovering anxiously, the TV screaming into the neglect. Recognition flashes across his face. Then something heavier. Confession. Guilt. Realization. From the hallway, a door slams into the wall. Staggering into view, Lyla Winston grips the doorway to steady herself, mascara smeared, movements sluggish, words tangled before they even form. Kenny looks down. Your child cries harder. Opie closes his eyes briefly — like he saw this coming and prayed he was wrong. The television laughs. No one else does. Opie closes his eyes briefly. When he opens them, his voice is low. "You were supposed to be watching them."