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"You're calling the police?" Allie screeched, using the boy's wild state to her advantage. "I don't want the police! I don't I don't I don't!" She screamed as loudly as she could, and her father looked helpless.
"Put down the phone, Adam!" her mother ordered.
"All right, all right!" He dropped it on the desk like it was about to explode. "There, I've put it down."
Allie stopped screaming, and took a minute to calm the boy's body down, allowing her mother to hold her. Allie hugged her back, and took more comfort from it than her mother could possibly know. The convulsive sobs eased until they were nothing more than shallow sniffles. "Can you tell us your name?" Allie's father asked.
Allie did know his name, because if there's one thing that little kids fill every thought with, it's their identity.
"Danny," she said. "Danny Rozelli."
"Well, Danny," said Allie's mom, "I think you did a little bit of sleepwalking last night."
"Yeah," said Allie, "sleepwalking, yeah." She was always impressed by her mother's ability to be logical against all reason.
"Could you tell us where you live?" Allie's father asked.
She knew where Danny Rozelli lived, but wasn't ready to share that information, so she shook her head, and said, "Something street."
Her parents sighed in unison.
Allie looked at the stump of her father's arm. There were indentations in the skin that must have been from a prosthetic arm, but of course he hadn't had time to put it on before finding little Danny Rozelli screaming in their dead daughter's bed.
"How'd that happen?" Allie asked, realizing that a seven-year-old's lack of tact was an asset now.
Her father hesitated for a moment, then he said, "Car accident."
"Ouch."
"Yeah. Ouch."
Her father also had a scar on his forehead and cheek. So the accident had taken his right arm, and left him with scars. None of it was pleasant, but it could have been a whole lot worse. Then again, it was worse, because they had also lost a daughter.
Allie longed to tell them that they hadn't lost her at all-- that she was right here in front of them, but she couldn't find a way to do that as the cat woman, and she couldn't as Danny Rozelli, either.
"Do you know your phone number, at least?" her mother asked. "We really should let someone know you're here-- your parents must be worried sick."
Allie didn't have much sympathy for parents who would eventually get their child back. She didn't know the number anyway, and that was fine. She was finally here with her own parents, and they were treating her with love and kindness. This was the closest thing she might ever have to true family time with them.
"I'm hungry," she said. "Can I have something to eat?"
Her parents glanced to each other, her mother threw her gaze to the phone, her father nodded and he left the room. It didn't take a genius to figure out that he was going to call the police from another room. Allie thought of throwing another hissy fit, but realized she couldn't stall the inevitable much longer. She would make the best of the time she had.
"Can I have Apple Jacks?" she asked. "Apple Jacks in strawberry milk?"
She could have sworn her mother turned a previously unknown shade of pale.
"Never mind," said Allie. "You probably don't have that."
"Actually," said her mother, "we do."
Her father rejoined them in the kitchen, giving a secret nod to his wife. He must have made the call. Allie figured they had about five minutes before the police arrived.
Allie savored every spoonful of her cereal while her parents sat with her at the kitchen table. She tried to trick herself into believing this was just a regular family breakfast.
"Sorry if they're a little stale," her mother said.
"No," said Allie, "they're fine."
