Goldilocks

Jamileh’s eyes darted around feverishly as she walked down the quiet street on the outskirts of Atlanta. The houses stood prim and square, shutters painted in cheerful pastels, driveways lined with SUVs that gleamed like showroom models. The air was heavy with the promise of rain, the kind that came down in thick sheets and soaked the red clay beneath the lawns. It should have been the kind of street that kids rode bikes down after supper. To her, it was a stage set.

Her friends called her Goldilocks. They said it with crooked grins when she stumbled into the trap house with her dyed-blonde curls poking from under a hoodie, face blotched and grubby, eyes too wide. She looked younger than she was - not yet twenty, though life had already stripped her bare. She hated the nickname, but it stuck, like everything else she couldn’t shake.

She’d tried, once. Enrolled herself in the programme, sat in the circle, nodded at the slogans. She’d known, clear as daylight, that it was what she needed. But her resolve - like everyone she’d ever loved - had drifted off, leaving her alone again. Clean living felt like a foreign language she couldn’t hold in her mouth. Now even the thought of getting out seemed absurd; the drugs might finish her one day, but at least death, she told herself, would welcome her warmly, greeting her as she slipped from this life. She should have gone by now, not loitering like a stray. But here she was, the itch crawling under her skin, her body humming with want. Her stomach roiled, her teeth ground against each other, and panic kept rising in her chest like bile. The drugs weren’t giving her what she needed anymore, only taking whatever she had left.

She thought of her parents, impossibly far away in a suburb of Tehran, retired now and caring for her grandparents. She thought of the Israeli strikes that had lit up her phone last week, headlines she hadn’t wanted to read. Since then, she hadn’t slept properly; every alert felt like a death notice. Her family was scattered like seeds after the Revolution - Canada, Italy, the Emirates, Sweden. “We all miss each other,” her mother had said once. “This is how we live.”

This is how we live. Jamileh repeated the words to herself like a curse as she scanned the street. Every house here was sealed tight with ring cameras and motion lights, layers of protection that made her feel like a rat scuttling through someone else’s maze. Only the storm pressing down on the air, thick and breathless, gave her courage.

The street was empty when she saw her chance. A car eased backwards from a driveway a few houses ahead - a mother, a kid, somewhere to be. Jamileh slowed, pretending to study her phone.

“You sure you locked the door, Rupie? Can I trust you?” the woman called, voice edged with that mix of patience and exasperation only mothers could.

“Yeah, Mom,” the boy muttered, eyes glued to his console.

The car slid away with that too-quiet electric whine that always unnerved her. The house sat silent behind them.

She moved quickly. The front door wasn’t fully shut, hanging open like an invitation. Careless kid. Typical. Her chest tightened. She’d done this before - too many times. Get in, grab what you can, and get out fast.

She pulled the door shut behind her and nearly bumped into an antique console table. On it sat a kid’s lunchbox. She was starving, but that would be stooping too low. Spinning on a hook above was a staff badge lanyard — a nurse’s ID.

The air smelled of fresh coffee and fabric softener, cloying in her throat. The hum of the AC was soft and even, like a lullaby. In the kitchen, she clocked a half-empty bowl of porridge with the spoon still in it, a glass of orange juice sweating onto a placemat, and a folder marked Outpatient Notes. On the fridge, a crayon drawing of three stick figures with the scribbled words: The Baer Family. She smirked. Guess the kid’s still learning to spell.

By the door: a pair of men’s boots, heavy and scuffed. “Mr Bear’s?” she wondered. Was he here somewhere? Her pulse quickened. She needed to move fast.

But her gaze snagged on details: stools lined up neatly under the breakfast bar, a silver bracelet in a dish by the sink, a tablet charging on the counter. A stack of children’s books on the table - fairy tales among them. Every sign of a cushioned life made her hesitate.

Her hands trembled as she slid her backpack off her shoulder. She should move, but the storm was rolling closer, a low growl overhead. The house felt alive, like a trap she’d walked into without realising.

“It’s here, Rupert, like always. You can’t keep forgetting it. Now let’s get your jacket. Where’d you leave it? In the kitchen?”

The voice came from the hall - calm and practised, the tone of someone used to frayed nerves. Jamileh froze. The boy’s muffled reply followed, then footsteps padding toward the kitchen.

The mother entered in a nurse’s uniform, lunchbox in hand. She stopped dead. A tag on her chest read Nurse Baer.

For a long second, neither moved. Jamileh’s hair was tangled, her eyes red-rimmed but sharp, her grip white-knuckled on her backpack strap.

Her body moved before her mind did. “Oh fuck.” Her voice cracked. She raised a hand, half-plea, half-warning. “Just let me get out and we’ll forget this happened. Or else - ” Her eyes darted to the sink, locked on the bread knife. She snatched it up, sudden, reckless, startling even herself. “- it gets messy. None of us wants that.”

The room shrank. Mrs Baer lowered the lunchbox onto the counter, her gaze steady. She glanced once at the folder on the table - Jamileh’s name scrawled across it.

“You don’t need to do this,” she said quietly. “I know who you are.”

Jamileh’s chest tightened, fury and shame knotting together. “No, you don’t. You don’t know shit. Don’t fuck with me.”

A stair creaked. Rupert appeared in the doorway, wide-eyed, jam at the corner of his mouth. He looked from knife to mother to the stranger with streaky yellow hair. His lip trembled.

“Mom…?”

“Stay back, Rupert,” Mrs Baer said, eyes never leaving Jamileh.

The boy’s face crumpled. The kitchen seemed to pulse with his fast beating heart.

Jamileh tried to look steady, though her hands shook. “I don’t want this,” she muttered. “Just… move, and I’m gone.”

Mrs Baer’s tone softened, low and firm, the voice she used at the clinic with people on the edge. “Jamileh, you’re not a ghost. You don’t just vanish. People care what happens to you.”

The words landed hard. She swallowed, her throat raw. “No one fucking cares.” Her gaze flicked to Rupert, blotchy-cheeked, staring at her as though she’d torn his world open. Against her will, guilt stabbed through.

That was enough. She dropped her eyes, shoved the door wide, and bolted, stumbling down the steps into the trees, the world numb and unreal, as if her body had stopped belonging to her.

Rupert’s cry broke free - a high, panicked sound. His eyes fixed on the stool, where a grubby smear marked the wood. Even with the woman gone, it felt as if the nightmare had seeped in, leaving behind a thin film that clung to everything.

Mrs Baer wrapped her arms around him, rocking gently. Her own eyes stayed fixed on the open door, on the shadowed woods beyond.

“I know I’ll see her again,” she whispered, so softly Rupert couldn’t hear.