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I stand there, watching him coax a wild, half-starved animal into trusting him. I think about how easy it would have been for the world to turn him hard, to make him mean. But he’s still soft, still gentle. Even after everything.

“Can I keep her?” he asks, voice so hopeful I almost laugh.

“Probably not. I think these ones like being outside. But I’m sure you can feed them if you want,” I say, and Kamden nods, accepting this non-answer like it’s a promise.

He sits with her for a few minutes, murmuring nonsense words, and I know I should be moving boxes inside, but I don’t. I just watch him. I imagine him here in a year, or five. I imagine him older but unchanged. Still soft. Still pretty. Still mine.

Eventually, the cat wanders off toward the neighbor’s backyard, and Kamden stands, brushing dust from his knees. “Okay, I’m ready to go in now.”

I reach for his hand, and his fingers slide between mine as we start toward the front of the bungalow together, Kamden glancing everywhere at once as though he is trying to memorize the whole property in the first thirty seconds.

The house isn’t anything special. The Grecos have told me that many times over the years. But I’m a simple man, and I don’t need the multi-million-dollar home, foreign cars, and house staff.

It’s a single-story brick house with pale siding and dark shutters. Wide front windows sit back beneath the porch roof. And a big-ass maple shades half the front yard, its roots lifting one corner of the walkway just enough that I’ve been telling myself for three years I should have somebody fix it.

I never bothered, but suddenly I’m imagining Kamden tripping over it in bunny slippers.

I’ll call someone Monday.

The porch is deep enough for two chairs and a small table, though I’ve never owned either because sitting outside voluntarily has always seemed like a hobby for retired people and men who grill too much.

Kammie might like it.

Add chairs to the list.

Maybe a porch swing.

Fuck.

I’m already picturing new curtains for the living room, maybe a brighter rug, before his sneakers even touch the porch steps.

Then I see it.

My hand clamps around his, knuckles white.

Kamden freezes mid-step, sensing the shift in my grip. “What’s wrong?”

I stop at the bottom of the stairs.

The package leans against the door frame, large and rectangular, wrapped in thick brown cardboard and crisscrossed with heavy-duty packing tape. It stands nearly three feet tall and two wide—too big to ignore, too plain to place. No logos, no store names, nothing to explain its presence on my quiet suburban porch.

Every muscle in my body tenses, ready.

Kamden feels it—the sudden stillness, the predator’s alertness. His fingers curl tighter around mine. “Daddy?”

“Stay here.”

His expression shifts from curiosity to caution. “What is it?”

“Don’t know yet. Don’t move.”

I let go of his hand and move up the steps alone, keeping my distance. The box looks undisturbed—seams flat, no stains, no odd protrusions or wires snaking from beneath the tape. Nothing about it screams danger, but in my line of work, silence is often the loudest warning. People picture bombs with timers and cartoon bundles of dynamite; reality prefers subtler threats.

I crouch a few feet back and pull out my phone. Pull up the security feed first. Forty minutes ago, a white van with a courier logo idles at the curb. A guy in a uniform rolls the thing up on a hand truck, checks the label, snaps a photo, leaves.

Normal procedure.

I scrub back through the timeline—no one else approaches afterward.