Ruiz wrote down both statements.

She also documented the weather, the approximate distance between our house and the roadside, and the fact that my coat and phone had been left behind.

When she asked whether I’d been allowed back into the house, my father said he hadn’t realized I’d gone so far.

“That wasn’t my question,” Ruiz replied.

He had no answer.

In my hospital room, the world came back in disconnected pieces: the hiss of oxygen, the warmth of blankets, and someone saying, “You are safe right now.”

I opened my eyes expecting to see Dad.

Instead, I saw a woman with kind brown eyes sitting beside my bed.

She wasn’t a relative.

She wasn’t even my nurse on that shift.

It was Margo.

“There you are,” she whispered.

For the first time since the deadbolt clicked, I believed someone might actually let me stay indoors.

PART 4