Jacob was all over his mother.
After what had transpired a few hours ago, it was obvious the little boy was deeply traumatized. His small arms wrapped tightly around Katherine's neck as if letting go even for a second would cause her to disappear. His body trembled every now and then, silent sobs shaking his thin frame.
He had witnessed his father die—right in front of him—along with two other men whose blood had stained the floor of the house he once thought was safe. He was only seven. Far too young to understand death, let alone process such brutality. The images would linger in his mind for a long time; Katherine knew that much.
She held him close, rocking him gently as though he were still a toddler. Her daughter rested in her other arm, warm and peaceful, completely unaware of the chaos that had unfolded earlier. Katherine had already breastfed her, and the little girl was now sound asleep, her tiny fingers curled into the fabric of Katherine's blouse.
