The Forgotten Ones

The stale air of the car hung heavy, thick with the unsaid. Elias, pressed against the cold window, watched his reflection — dead hazel-green eyes framed by unruly brown curls. Six hours. Six hours of his five-year-old sister, Ava, chattering to her dolls and the monotonous GPS voice, charting their course to a new, unwelcome life. He closed his eyes, clinging to fragmented memories of his old baseball team, old friends, his old room. Everything he couldn't pack, everything he'd left behind.
"Almost there," his father sighed, a forced cheer in his voice that made Ava giggle.
"Mommy!" Ava shrieked, launching herself forward, her doll's heel connecting sharply with Elias's head.
"She's not my mom," Elias blurted, the words harsher than he intended, silencing the car. His father's knuckles whitened on the steering wheel, his gaze in the rearview mirror turning to daggers. The ride grew quiet, the tension suffocating enough to even still Ava. He knew he should apologize, but he couldn't. Not when his prediction was already coming true: everyone else wins. Except him.
He stared out, counting the seconds until they reached this new, dead town.
