The message glowed on my phone like a match struck in a dark room.

I saved the message without responding.

Whoever sent it wanted a reaction.

They might have known who I used to be, but they did not know how many years I had spent teaching myself not to act on fear alone.

The room was dim except for the monitor above Maya’s bed.

Her stuffed fox lay on the pillow beside her, one ear permanently bent from too many trips through the washing machine.

I remembered buying it at a highway rest stop when she was two.