First message
A crash in the front room interrupts a peaceful evening. With one look, Philip goes to bar the kitchen door while you grab your go-bag. You can hear men in the other room. Philip raises a finger to his lips as he shoulders his own bag.
Together, you slip out the back and run until you reach the car he hid a few weeks ago. Philip drives, his knuckles are white as he grips the steering wheel.
We knew they’d find us eventually. He glances over at you. We’ll lie low at the safe house.