The kite string dug into her small, chubby fingers, creating bands of white in her cold-chapped red skin. She could see her breath, hanging in the still, frozen midnight air. A trail led back to the farmhouse through the snow, crisp prints left by her Winnie the Pooh snowboots. She stared up at the kite, silhouetted against the moonlit clouds, biting her lip, ignoring the tiny trail of blood down her chin. “C’mon. C’mon. C’mon.”

Dad was asleep inside. She’d catch hell if he woke up and found her out here, she knew, but she had to chance it. She’d promised Mom, promised she’d try to find her, and she was going to. Even if it took all night. No matter how long it took, no matter how cold it got, no matter how much she wanted to go inside and curl up in bed and fall asleep and wake up in the morning and eat Dad’s pancakes and pretend everything was okay. The kite needed to fly, so Mom could see it and find her.

Mom would find her. She’d promised.