He shut the blinds in the living room too.
My stomach tightened.
“You’re frightening me.”
He turned.
“Where are the kids?”
“Upstairs.”
“Get them.”
“Why?”
“Claire. Please.”
Then he grabbed my hands.
His were shaking.
In eleven years together, I had seen Daniel angry, exhausted, sick, grieving, and terrified.
I had never seen him look like this.
“Pack a bag,” he said.
“What?”
“Essentials only. You and the kids.”
“Are you in trouble?”
“No.”
“Did somebody threaten you?”
“No.”
“Then tell me what’s happening.”
Daniel pulled out his phone.
“I had a meeting this morning.”
He opened several photographs.
“They assigned me to a county drainage project. A field crew found something after last week’s storms.”
“What?”
He handed me the phone.
It showed a map covered in underground lines.
One section was highlighted in red.
I recognized the neighborhood immediately.
Then I recognized our street.
Our house number had been circled.
“What am I looking at?”
Daniel swallowed.
“There’s an old stormwater tunnel beneath part of the neighborhood.”
“Under our house?”
“Near it. Possibly beneath part of the property. They’re still figuring that out.”
I stared at him.
“What happened to it?”
“Part of the tunnel failed.”
I still didn’t understand why we needed to flee the house.
Then he explained that engineers were concerned the soil above part of the damaged structure might no longer be properly supported.
“How serious is it?”
Daniel looked directly at me.
“Serious enough that they’re worried the ground could give way.”
I almost laughed because the sentence sounded impossible.
Then I saw his expression.
“You’re serious.”
“Yes.”
“Why hasn’t anyone warned us?”
“The emergency team is preparing notifications. My supervisor saw our address on my employment paperwork and asked whether my family was home.”
“What did you tell him?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
Daniel took a breath.
“He told me, **‘Go home. Get them out. We’ll handle the rest.’**”
That was enough.
I ran upstairs.
“Kids! Shoes on. Now!”
Suddenly, every ordinary noise inside the house sounded suspicious.
The pipes.
The refrigerator.
Max running down the hallway.
I threw clothes, medication, chargers, toothbrushes, and our insurance documents into bags.
Max came downstairs carrying three stuffed animals.
“One,” I told him.
“But the others will be scared.”
I looked at Daniel.
“Fine. Three.”
We were almost outside when I glanced through the blinds.
Then I remembered Martha.
Our eighty-two-year-old neighbor lived alone and didn’t drive.
“I have to get Martha.”
“The county will warn everyone,” Daniel said.
“They haven’t warned her yet.”
He looked at her house.
Then nodded.
“Fast.”
We rushed next door.
Martha answered wearing slippers.
“Claire?”
“Pack your medication. You’re coming with us.”
“What happened?”
“There’s a problem underground. We need to leave.”
Daniel loaded her walker while I helped pack her things.
Then we warned the closest neighbors as we made our way toward the car.
Some believed us immediately.
Others wanted proof.
One neighbor, Mr. Hargrove, refused.
“I’ll wait for an official warning.”
Daniel showed him the engineering map.
“It’s not a rumor.”
Mr. Hargrove folded his arms.
“Don’t tell me what to do in my own house.”
Daniel’s frustration showed.
“Then make your own decision. But please get your wife somewhere safe.”
I pulled Daniel away.
“We warned him. That’s all we can do.”
