The Personal Attack

The afternoon sun, usually a cheerful, unwavering presence in Havenwood, felt muted, as if struggling to penetrate the thickening veil of unease that had settled over the town. Alex traced the condensation on his bedroom window, the cool glass a small comfort against the rising heat of his apprehension. Benji had called an hour ago, his voice a strained whisper, barely audible over the crackle of the phone line. “Alex,” he’d choked out, “it’s… it’s my mom.”

Alex’s stomach had twisted into a tight knot. Benji’s mom, Mrs. Morgan, was the anchor of their small, boisterous group of friends. A whirlwind of flour dust and booming laughter, she was the kind of woman who made even the most mundane moments feel like a celebration. The thought of anything happening to her was a cold, sharp dread that pierced through Alex’s usual skepticism.

“What about her, Benji? What happened?” Alex had pressed, his own voice betraying a tremor he tried to suppress.