The coastal courtroom smelled of polished wood and stale coffee, benches creaking like they were sick of carrying restless bodies, salty air sneaking in through some cracked window. Camille sat stiff, too stiff, front row, her heart banging too loud, jagged, Ms. Holt’s document heavy in her head—Judge Marrow, Kline’s contact—burning, like a fever thought. The text wouldn’t stop echoing: Ellie’s gone unless you sign. Gone. Ellie was safe—supposedly—with a neighbor, but Camille’s brain didn’t sit right. Her thoughts kept tangling raw—Marrow’s ruling? I can’t—no, I won’t—lose her. Her palms stuck to the edge of the bench, waxy sting of polish sharp in her nose, her eyes hot, stinging, the...