The man at the mailbox is dead. What stands on the porch now is smaller, quieter, and harder to shoot. A child with bare feet on the welcome mat, a small palm pressed flat against three inches of solid wood, and a door that should not be creaking under that little weight. Across the street, a candle burns in the dormer of a house where the only resident is now under a guest-bed sheet on the Smiths' back patio.

The Smith family has eight days of collapse behind them and one night of demonstration ahead of them. The hard tap on the door is not a knock. It is a question. The candle in the dormer is the answer somebody is waiting on. And the rule Sarah laid down at the dining room table that morning — we don't open the door — is about to be tested by every instinct that makes a parent a parent.

What unfolds inside the house over the next  ...