I sit behind the wheel. Grip it. Try to breathe. Fail.
The car is too quiet.
I watch the house. The dark windows. The closed door.
I tell myself they’re coming back. I tell myself they’re not. I tell myself I don’t know anything. My leg won’t stop bouncing. My hands won’t stop shaking.
What if she were never here? What if the photo was old? What if she’s already gone again? What if I missed her by minutes? By seconds?
Three years collapse into one unbearable moment.
Every birthday I missed.
Every bedtime story.
Every nightmare she had without me there.
I press my forehead against the steering wheel and breathe like I’m trying not to drown.
Please.
Please.
Please.
I don’t care how. I don’t care why. Just let me see her. Let me hold her. Let me know she’s alive.
Minutes crawl by. Maybe longer. Time doesn’t work right anymore.
Then—
Headlights suddenly flood my rearview mirror. Bright. Close. A car is pulling into the driveway.
My heart slams so hard I think I might pass out.
The cruiser’s lights flip on instantly. Doors open. Commands fill the air.
“Turn off the engine!”
“Show me your hands!”
“Step out of the vehicle!”
I get out of my car before I realize I’ve moved.
They pull a woman from the driver’s seat. Cuff her. Guide her away.
Someone opens the back door. And then?—
A little girl steps out.
Small.
Fragile.
Wrapped in a hoodie that swallows her frame.
Her hair is longer now. Tangled at the ends. Her cheeks are thinner than they should be.
