Children, the lucky ones, the ones who have not been too badly hurt, keep offering themselves fresh to each new day.

Maya had been hurt, more than most, and she kept offering herself anyway, and I made a promise to her sleeping form in that rearview mirror that I have tried to keep every day since: that her trust, this time, was not misplaced.

That this time, the one who held her collar was going to hold on.

It is a promise I renew silently almost every day, usually at some ordinary moment, watching her sleep or laugh or struggle with a puzzle piece.

The world had taught her, in her first fourteen months, that people come and people go and you must not count on any of them.