You had always been good at feeling being watched. Life had taught you that attention could be danger long before adults admitted it.
A man in a black jacket stood near the vending machines, pretending to scroll on his phone.
Another waited by the doors.
Aunt Maribel noticed too.
Her fingers tightened around your shoulder.
“Bathroom,” she whispered.
You walked together toward the restroom, then through a side exit into an alley slick with morning rain. Aunt Maribel moved fast despite the bag over her shoulder.
Behind you, a man shouted, “Citlali!”
You froze.
Aunt Maribel pulled you harder.
“Run.”
You ran.
Through the alley.
Across a loading dock.
Past a delivery truck.
Your lungs burned, but this time you were not only running from humiliation.
You were running from ownership.
A black SUV screeched near the curb.
Mark Ellis stepped out.
“Citlali, wait. Mr. Villalobos only wants to talk.”
Aunt Maribel pushed you behind her.
“Tell Mr. Villalobos to talk to our attorney.”
Mark’s expression barely changed.
“Do you have one?”
Aunt Maribel lifted her chin.
“We will.”
A woman’s voice cut through the alley.
“They do now.”
Everyone turned.
A tall Native woman in a camel coat stepped from the sidewalk, holding a legal folder and a paper cup of coffee. Her silver-streaked hair was pulled back neatly, and her eyes were sharp enough to make Mark step back without realizing it.
“My name is Nora Redbird,” she said. “I represent the Morningstar family as of three minutes ago.”
Aunt Maribel stared at her.
“You’re from the Indigenous Rights Alliance.”
