The rabbit had once been white.
Years of hugs had turned it gray, and one ear leaned permanently sideways from when Ella used to chew it while falling asleep.
She had outgrown princess sheets and plastic tea sets, but she had never stopped reaching for that rabbit when she was frightened.
That evening, she was squeezing it so hard that the tips of her fingers had gone pale.
I set my suitcase beside the wall.
“Hey, peanut,” I said. “What happened?”
Ella looked toward the stairs before she looked at me.
It was a small movement, but it changed the room.
Children glance toward the place they expect help to come from.
Ella glanced toward the place she expected danger to hear her.
“Dad, my back really hurts,” she whispered.
I knelt in front of her.
“Did you fall?”
She stared down at the rabbit.
“Mom said I shouldn’t tell you.”
