At the sound of his name, Rufus barks from the living room. Maisie giggles, the first sign of real brightness I’ve seen on her face all morning.
“Yeah,” she says. “Let’s do that.”
Crisis averted.
Except it doesn’t feel like victory. Not really. The look she gave me when she asked if she was naughty carved a line straight through my ribs.
I clean up breakfast. I hear her humming in the bedroom, zipping her coat, stomping her boots to test them. It’s a small ritual she’s always done, and I cling to the sound like it’s a rope pulling me back from the edge.
She skips to the door as I clip Rufus’s leash. “Ready!”
I open the door and the cold sweeps in immediately, crisp enough to sting my eyes. Maisie steps out, breath puffing in little clouds.
She grabs my free hand without looking, like it’s automatic, like some part of her still trusts me without question.
We walk.
The snow that fell overnight crunches under our boots. Holiday lights already wrap the lamp posts, twinkling against the gray sky.
The bakery on the corner has its windows fogged up, the smell of cinnamon rolls drifting through the cracked door. Maisie looks up at them longingly, but she doesn’t ask. It kills me a little.
“We’ll stop in later,” I promise.
She brightens again, just a bit.
We pass Mrs. Healy sweeping her porch. She waves, eyes lingering on Maisie with softness. I know it’s only a matter of hours before everyone knows that my niece is here with me.
This town sees through cracks faster than you can patch them.
“You cold?” I ask Maisie.
“A little.”
“Come here.” I tug her closer, letting her tuck into my side. She fits there too easily, like muscle memory.
Rufus trots ahead, tail wagging so hard his whole butt wiggles.
The walk helps me breathe. Helps me settle. Helps me remember that I can do this. That I’ve done harder things.
I’ve worked double shifts during storms. I’ve pulled people from crashed cars. I’ve handled chaotic crowds and emergencies and panicked neighbors who swear the world is ending because a tree fell on their shed.
But this? This little girl’s trust sitting in my palm like something breakable?
It’s its own kind of terrifying.
We reach the shopping strip. The boutiques are already setting up Christmas displays—silver snowflakes, fake pine branches, red ribbons tied into bows so big they droop under their own weight.
Maisie presses her face against one window, eyes wide at a sparkly white coat she’ll probably beg for.
“You like that one?” I ask.
She nods without looking away.
“Then let’s go see it.”
Her smile ricochets through me.
Inside, the warmth hits in a rush. She wanders through racks, touching everything, asking if glitter is “too much for daytime” and if reindeer sweaters are “too babyish.” She lifts a pair of boots and shows them to Rufus like he gets a vote.
