Vada leaned wearily against the granite kitchen island in her small rental house on the outskirts of Denver, Colorado, and glanced at the clock over the stove. 6:30 p.m. The workday at the finance firm downtown had dragged on forever.

The annual report required verifying every single figure, every decimal point, every note. Barely in her early thirties, yet she felt like she was fifty, Vada thought to herself. A dull ache pressed against her temples.

Columns of numbers still flickered before her eyes even when she closed them. “I have to make dinner,” she reminded herself under her breath as she opened the stainless-steel refrigerator. Inside she found the chicken breasts she had taken out that morning to thaw, some tomatoes, carrots, an onion, and a bag of rice.

Nothing complicated, just an ordinary weeknight dinner for an ordinary American family in a quiet Colorado suburb. Vada pulled out a cutting board, turned on the faucet, and began rinsing the vegetables. The mechanical movement soothed her, distracting her from thoughts of work.

Sterling should be home in an hour. Her husband worked as a project manager at a construction firm in downtown Denver, and lately his schedule had become unpredictable. Sometimes he stayed late on-site.

Other times, he disappeared in the middle of the day, claiming a meeting outside the office. Vada didn’t think much of it. Everyone had urgent deadlines and overtime sometimes.

Azora, her eight-year-old daughter, was in her room at the end of the hall. Usually the girl would greet her mom with happy shouts and stories about school, her friends, and her teacher, Miss Williams. But today—just like the last two weeks—the little girl had been strangely quiet.

She had arrived home from school, said a subdued hello, and gone straight to her room. “She’s probably just tired,” Vada thought as she seasoned the chicken with salt, pepper, and a sprinkle of dried herbs. “This semester is always the heaviest.

Spring break is coming up soon. She’ll get some rest.”

She put the skillet on the burner, poured in some oil, and then heard soft footsteps behind her on the hardwood floor. She turned around.

Azora was standing in the kitchen doorway in her fuzzy pink bathrobe, barefoot, her braided hair a bit messy, her face pale, with bluish shadows under her eyes. “Azora, baby, are you hungry?” Vada asked gently. “Come here.