She walked down the road through the snowy neighborhood. Her new red coat with a hood kept out the cold; she was so proud of it because there hadn't been new clothes in a long time. Crows on the icicled rooftop looked at her and she looked back, her eyes full of innocence. It was only a little way to the park. She liked to ride the toy horses best. She would pretend she was a cowboy in Montana, though she was never really sure if Montana existed or if it was a place made up for movies. All the cars were gone from the houses that morning. People were at work, or school, or doing whatever mysterious things adults do. It was only her, walking from the little yellow house to the park.
She didn't even see the face in the window of one of those houses.
At the park, she played for a long time. Longer than her mother would have let her. She played until her toes felt like marbles and her face turned red. She watched her breath in the winter air. You never know how far your breath goes until you can see it, all foggy in the cold. She liked winter, then.
After a while she wondered if her mother was worried or angry. Mama had to be awake by now. So she started back up the hill, slowly to enjoy these moments away from anyone who might pat her head or pinch her cheek or scold her for going out. Her breath, still frosted in the air, preceded her like a beckoning friend. She imagined a friend for herself, another girl like her, a girl with cutout dolls and pretty dresses she could borrow. She named her friend Rebekah, for a girl she'd known in school. But school was a hundred years ago and a hundred miles away, and she knew she'd never see the real Rebekah again. They would never plait each other's hair again or switch clothes to drive their mothers mad with wondering who was who. The imaginary Rebekah, so much less comforting and solid than the real, walked beside her.
Up the path, up the slippery stairs. She knew there was something wrong when she saw the door was open a little, but she didn't want herself to know it. She opened the door and went inside anyway, calling for her mother or for the nice auntie who lived there. No one replied. The house felt empty, the air disturbed, as if some shapeless nightmare thing had come and gone already.
Then she saw the telephone. It was hanging off the hook; someone had been interrupted mid-conversation by loud voices and a pounding at the door. And she knew then.
There was nothing left to do. She sat and held her knees, and waited.
