At a quarter to three, Abigail got up for more juice.

I followed her into the kitchen.

The sun had moved across the table and was hitting the glasses.

She poured her own orange juice and put the carton back in the fridge.

Then she sat down at the table and took a drink.

I sat across from her.

Elena’s thermos was on the counter, still full.

I hadn’t opened it.

The sun shone bright across the kitchen table as Abigail set down her juice glass and took my hand.

Her fingers were warm from holding the cold glass.

“I’m right here, Mom, and we’re finally safe,” Abigail whispered.