“Okay, baby,” I said softly. “Let’s go home.”
We started walking toward the parking deck, our footsteps echoing against the polished floor. Stores were closing, metal grates half-pulled down. The flight boards flickered overhead with last-call announcements. People jogged past us clutching Chick-fil-A bags and backpacks.
Kenzo lagged behind, dragging his feet.
“You okay, sweetie?” I asked. “You’ve been really quiet.”
He didn’t answer.
We were almost at the glass doors when he stopped so suddenly I nearly stumbled.
“Mama.”
I turned, annoyed for half a second, then instantly alarmed by the sound of his voice.
“What is it?”
He looked up at me, and the fear in his eyes punched the air out of my chest.
“Mama,” he whispered, tugging my hand hard, “we can’t go back home.”
I crouched in front of him, trying to keep my voice calm. “What do you mean? Of course we’re going home. It’s late.”
He shook his head violently, tears already pooling. “No. Please. We can’t. Something bad is going to happen.”
A few people glanced our way. I gently pulled him closer.
“Kenzo, baby, listen to me. You’re safe. Daddy’s just on a trip. Nothing bad is going to happen.”
“Mama, please,” he said, his voice breaking. “This time you have to believe me.”
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