I found myself writing Maya Sinclair in the center of a blank page.

Underneath it I wrote the first things that came to mind: yellow rain boots, cinnamon toast, the way she laughed when a dog sneezed.

I wanted proof that her life was made of more than one terrible afternoon.

My phone rang.

Mrs.

Jones was calling.

“I should have seen her sooner,” she said before I could speak.

“You saw her when she needed someone.”