The sound of breaking glass was the first noise. But the sound that truly broke her, the one that tore a scream from her soul, was the thud of a crowbar meeting the loyal dog who stood in its way. Evelyn Mae Dwyer hadn’t screamed in forty years. Not since Saigon. But on a Tuesday night in late October, the kind when the wind turns cold without warning, the kind that makes old bones ache, she woke to the sound of breaking glass—and the scream clawed its way out of her before she even sat up. The