“You know I wouldn’t hurt you, don’t you?”

“Y-y-yess, Ms. Dandridge.” Amber’s voice quivers.

“You can call me Martha, sweetie.” Martha’s fingers brush back Amber’s hair, revealing the yellowish-green bruise on her face. “He can’t hurt you now; you know that, don’t you?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Amber’s eyes can’t lie. She is scared her step-father will find out. She knows the punishment will be bad. Really bad.

“Close your eyes.” Martha guides Amber’s body onto the damp basement floor. Amber grips the snow globe as Martha begins to read aloud from a leather-bound book.

The Celtic words flow easily from Martha’s mouth, causing every hair on Amber’s body to stand on end. Suddenly, with a flash of light, Amber disappears, leaving the globe lying on the basement floor.

Martha carefully picks up the globe and, with a few strokes, engraves:

Amber Ann Miller
Age 11
December 2010

Martha carries the globe upstairs. Tiny voices echo from the hundreds of globes inside the curio cabinet, welcoming their new friend.