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Every maternal instinct I've ever felt surfaces. I want to pull her close, pick her up, carry her to the Jeep, and take her home with me. I want to draw a hot bath and let her soak. I'd wash her hair and tend her feet and tuck her beneath clean sheets. I'd make her toast and macaroni and cheese and chocolate pudding and . . . anything and everything she'd want. I'd place it all on a tray and take it to her in bed. I'd sit with her—stay with her—all night if necessary.

My throat aches and I'm vaguely aware of tears on my cheeks, but I don't care. I pull her close and she rests her head on my shoulder. "Kaylee, I'm going to take care of you . . . I'll take care of everything."

"There you are!" Officer Mackenzie, out of breath, comes up behind us. "I . . . I told you to wait at your car!" Gasping for air, he reaches for his radio. "I . . . found them. We'll meet you at the road."

I see the pulse throbbing in the prominent veins on Officer Mackenzie's neck. I can almost see, I imagine, the adrenaline coursing through his system.

"I told you to stay put! You could have been hurt!" He runs his hands through his hair and then bends down. "Kaylee? Are you okay?"

Kaylee turns and gives Mackenzie a slight nod.

He stands and turns back to me. "Let's go. Medical personnel—ambulances—are on the way. We'll meet them at the road." He looks down at Kaylee and I see him eye her feet. "Kaylee, I'm going to carry you to the road."

Upon hearing this, Kaylee pulls her shoulders forward. Her head lowers and her eyes—those telling pools of emotion—widen. Fear, an insidious intruder, pulls her into herself. I watch, helpless.

"Hey, little one, I'll go with you. It'll be okay."

She pulls further away from me and shakes her head—the movement is slow . . . subtle . . . but it speaks both her fear and protest.

Officer Mackenzie squats next to Kaylee again and tries to reason with her. "Kaylee, we can't leave you here alone. You need to go to the hospital. There are nice people who will take good care of you."

I can see Officer Mackenzie's patience is waning. "And I'll stay with you at the hospital, you won't be alone." I look at Officer Mackenzie. "I can do that, right?"

"Yes."

I hope my presence will reassure her, but instead, she lowers her eyes, stares at the ground, and wraps her arms around herself. She's pulled deeper inward.

Pain wraps its tentacles around my heart and squeezes. I don't know how to help her. I realize how little I know about this child. I don't understand her. Yet, I realize, I love her—something I can't explain. I wonder if she'll ever return my love.

But now isn't the time to ponder such thoughts.

I remember Kaylee's notes yesterday. Was it just yesterday? It feels like ages ago.
Staying is imperative.
The clutch on my heart tightens. "Kaylee told me yesterday that she has to stay here—for some reason, staying here is . . ." Is what? I don't know. I begin again. "Her mom has amnesia."

"Kaylee," Mackenzie bends so he's eye-level with her. "The Sheriff's Department and Social Services—the nice people who will help take care of you—can help look for your mom. We have ways of finding people. We'll start looking right away and we'll let you know if we find her."

Kaylee stares at Mackenzie's face like she's weighing whether or not she can trust him. I pull her close and feel her fear—it trembles beneath the surface.

"She's shaking."

"Shock, probably. She's been through a lot this morning."

Still holding her, I try one last tactic. "You know what, sweetie? Your mom would want you to go to the hospital. She'd want someone to take care of you. I think we need to do this for her."

She shakes her head again. But this time, the shake is almost imperceptible.

Mackenzie bends down in front of her. "Put your arms around my neck, and I'll carry you on my back to the road. Now. We need to go."

Kaylee hesitates a moment longer, then wraps her arms around his neck. He lifts her up and then turns and looks over his shoulder at me. "Let's go."

With that, we make our way through the trees and brush and head back to the road.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Kaylee

Each time he takes a step, my body bounces on his back, and every bounce hurts. I try to hold on tight around his neck but my arms feel rubbery and I can't stop shaking. My head pounds, my legs and stomach cramp, and the bottoms of my feet burn. Sierra's walking next to us and keeps reaching up and putting her hand on my back. I like the feel of her hand on my back. It's the only thing that feels good.

I just want to rest my cheek on the policeman's shoulder and feel Sierra's hand on my back. I want her to keep it there. My eyes feel scratchy—like they need to close and stay closed for a long time. I want to go to sleep with Sierra's hand on my back. If I could talk I'd say, "Please don't move your hand—just leave it there until I wake up."

My face gets hot when I think about that. I'm not a baby. I don't need someone to watch me sleep. But that's what I want. I just want . . . I want . . . someone to stay with me. I don't want to be alone anymore.

What I really want, I tell myself, is my mom. Not Sierra. I want my mom. I do.

But with each painful bounce the picture in my mind of my mom becomes less clear. It's like my brain is an Etch A Sketch—one of those red boxes with a screen and two white knobs that you turn to draw a picture. When you're done with the picture, you shake the box and the screen clears and it's ready for a new picture.

Bounce. The screen shakes and her dark hair becomes just a smudge.

Bounce. Her face erases.

Bounce. Her hands and feet slip away.

I try to hold onto the picture but I can't. Not anymore.

I tried, Mommy—I tried.
Tears blur my sight.
I tried to wait. I waited as long as I could.

I can't wait anymore.

I'm sorry.

Wherever I am, it's comfortable. I stretch my legs and then roll onto my side.

I feel something drape over me and tuck around me. I didn't know I was cold until the warmth sends a shiver through me. Now I feel snug—tight—like a caterpillar in a cocoon.

I hear voices but can't understand what they're saying. I lift my head up and look around, but the movement sends what feels like nails shooting through my forehead, so I lie back down and close my eyes again.

Then a soft, cool hand touches my forehead. The hand brushes the hair off my face and then gently rubs back and forth. A memory flickers, but it's too hard to pull it up and think about it.

"I'm here, Kaylee, you're doing great."

The voice whispering in my ear is familiar—kind . . . gentle—but I can't place it. I don't even know if it's real. I try to open my eyes, but it's too hard to bother.

"Okay, Kaylee, you'll feel a small prick. It's gonna sting, but just for a minute."

This voice is different. Someone I don't know.

I feel a tapping on my arm and then a sharp poke into my skin. I roll back flat and open my eyes against a bright light. I try to pull my arm away, but someone's holding it down.

"Whoa, girly, you need to hold still. We need to get some fluids in you. You're all dried up, dehydrated. This'll make you feel better. After this, we're taking care of those feet of yours. Gonna soak 'em in some nice warm water."

It takes a minute to come out of the fog of sleep and remember why I'm here. I squint against the light while pictures flash in my mind: The cabin. Him. The police. Shots. Sierra.

I remember the hand on my forehead and turn to see if it's her. Sierra. I squint my eyes against the light and try to focus on her face. Her eyes are different here, inside—more gray than blue. She's serious, concerned or worried maybe?

"Hey, you're waking up. How do you feel?" As she talks to me, her hand continues to smooth my forehead. Her hand is still cool against my skin. Her voice is tender and caring. She still looks worried so I try to smile to reassure her, but my mouth is dry and my lips stick to my teeth. She asks someone if she can give me something to drink.

"Sure thing, honey. There's cups right there by the sink. Give her just a sip or two to start."

Sierra takes her hand off my head and I feel it's not being there almost more than it's being there—like when you take a Band-Aid off a sore before it's all the way healed up and it stings.

When she comes back with the cup of water, she helps me sit up. She stuffs a pillow behind my back then lifts the cup to my lips. A memory flickers to the surface again, but now I'm awake enough to remember it: The soft, cool hand on my forehead, the cup of liquid lifted to my lips. It's from
Mandy.
It's the part of the story I wrote on the scrap of paper and put in my jar.

I take a drink of the water and then lay back against the pillow. I stare at Sierra. Will my story end like Mandy's? Will Sierra love me and take me home with her . . . forever?

The thought makes me want to pull the blanket over my head and hide in the dark space under it where no one will know what I'm thinking.

I want to go home with Sierra, but . . . what about my mom?

Maybe the police will find my mom and we'll go home together.

I think about home. Is the cabin home? Will he come back too? Or is he dead? Maybe he's dead. Maybe they shot him. I hope he's dead. I don't want to go back to the cabin. Ever.

So where's home?

The question makes me feel the way I felt in the forest last night: lost. But maybe home is more a feeling than a place. When they find my mom, or when she finds me, then I'll be home. Sort of.

But what about Sierra? Would I ever see her again?

I look at her. She's standing at the foot of the bed talking to the nurse. When I look at her, something inside me hurts. I think of a word from the dictionary:
de·sid·er·ate.
It means you want something really bad. Or miss it really bad.
Desiderate
isn't in my box. It's a hurting word. But it's a word I remember because I know how it feels.

When she's done talking to the nurse, Sierra comes back to the side of the bed. She rests her hand on my shoulder. I think about the way her hand feels. The way it feels to have someone touch you and take care of you.

It feels like home.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Sierra

Surrealism was a twentieth-century movement of artists and writers to capture, through the use of fantastic images and incongruous juxtapositions, a representation of unconscious thoughts and dreams.

If I were to capture this moment on canvas, it most certainly would fall into the category of surrealism. It's all incongruous juxtapositions. The first incongruity is me—a single, childless, independent woman, standing on the side of a dirt road, mentally wringing my hands, my heart, my soul, as a child is loaded into an ambulance.

The second incongruity is Kaylee—a motherless, independent "adult" in a child's body. She's taken care of herself until today when she, under duress, surrendered herself to the care of others—right now the paramedics, later the county, then . . . who knows.

Here we are the two of us, side by side. True surrealists would call this a chance effect, but they'd be wrong. Not by chance nor even by choice are we together, but by design. Of this, I am oddly certain.

And as much as I desire to look at this through the critical, detached eyes of an artist, instead I am the subject. These are my dreams, I realize. My yearnings and longings for motherhood are playing out before my eyes.

I try to etch these thoughts, these certainties, this moment of clarity, on the walls of my mind and heart for I sense I'll need them later.

I see Officer Mackenzie pat one of the paramedics on the back and then turn toward me. He motions for me to come over. Once the paramedics arrived, I stepped back to give them room to work.

"Sierra, they're ready to take Kaylee, do you want to ride with her?"

"Is she awake?"

"Nah . . . she's out. The paramedics say she's in shock, dehydrated, and exhausted. They gave her something for pain—her feet are pretty chewed up—so she'll sleep awhile."

"Okay, then I'll follow in my own car. I don't want to have to come back for it later."

Mackenzie nods. "We're done then. We'll be in touch. We'll likely have questions for you when we do our report."

"That's fine. Hey, I saw the other ambulance. What happened in there today? I mean—the shots—did you—did you have to . . ."

"He fired. He was erratic, but we had to protect Kaylee, and ourselves." Mackenzie's thoughtful for a moment. "I promised my wife and kids I'd be home for dinner tonight. I intend to keep that promise." He tilts his head and smiles. "He got two shots off before I shot him. That was two shots too many. I hit him below the right shoulder. So he's wounded, but he'll probably make it. His type usually does."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean he'll be back, free to do this to another child. He'll get off on a technicality or maybe he'll even serve a little time, then we'll get another call and go through the whole thing again."

I nod in understanding, although I know I don't truly understand. I can't imagine what it takes to do his job.

"Well, Sierra, as I said, we'll be in touch." He gestures to the ambulance that's turning around on the dirt road. I nod again.

When I arrive at the hospital, they're just unloading Kaylee from the ambulance. I follow the paramedics through the double doors and down a hallway to the nurses' station where the paramedics exchange information with a woman who looks as though she could wrap all of humanity in her ample arms and make us all feel better. She jots down the pertinent medical information then looks around the paramedics to me. "You her momma?"

"No. I'm just . . . No. I'm not."

Eyes the color of rich coffee stare back at me—wisdom swirls in their depths. "You have the worried look of a momma."

"I was . . ." The whispered words slip out of my mouth before they register in my mind. "I mean, I had . . . I . . ."

"Honey, you don't need to tell me nothin', but I'm tellin' you, once a momma, always a momma. That's just the way it is. There's no goin' back, no matter what happened. So if you're not her momma then who is? Do we have a parent here?"