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She's in there.

Van moves into the opening and out of my sight.

I wait for a moment, hoping my big dog doesn't scare that little girl to death. Maybe this wasn't my brightest idea. What was I thinking? I take the last few steps to the tree and bend down and peek inside.

There, sitting in a patch of sunlight shining down from the opening burned higher in the trunk is the child I saw that first day. Knees to her chest, arms crossed over her knees, and her head buried in her arms. Van is licking one tiny ear that pokes through her hair. She lifts her head for just a moment to look at Van—just long enough for me to see the smile on her face and know that she's not afraid of my dog.

She doesn't see me, so I just watch—fascinated. Then a wave of fear washes over me again. What am I doing here? I can get up now, before she sees me, and leave. I don't have to do this. But the fear retreats as quickly as it arrived, and I feel something new, something familiar, but long forgotten. It's the feeling I had on Saturday mornings as a child, when the day stretched before me with endless possibilities.

I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and without any assurance, I step out over the canyon. All I have is the hope that someone or something will catch me as I fall.

I open my eyes and whisper, "Hi."

Van hears me and turns to show me his find. He paces back and forth between me and the child, who keeps her head buried in her arms.

"Hi," I say a little louder. "That's my dog, Van. I hope he didn't scare you."

Slowly she raises her head and looks at me. The smile remains in her eyes. There's something else there too—curiosity, maybe? I see none of the fear I sensed the first time I saw her.

She doesn't move. She just stares at me.

"I'm Sierra, what's your name?" I wait for a response, but she says nothing.

"Will you tell me your name?"

She still says nothing but instead moves to stand up. Once standing, she smiles, bows her head slightly, and then holds out her hand. For a moment I'm not sure what she wants. Then it occurs to me, and I reach and shake her hand. Her formal gesture makes me smile.

She sits back down next to Van who places his head on her knees. She reaches for him. Her movement is tentative—she never takes her eyes off me. Her eyes seem to convey a question.

"It's okay. You can pet him."

I watch as her fingers play across one of Van's silky ears.

For just a moment she glances away from me and back to Van. I see her smile widen.

I'm taken by her eyes—deep pools, fringed by a thicket of sable lashes. They stare at me from behind long, uneven bangs. Beautiful eyes, certainly. But it's not the beauty that captivates me—it's the story I read behind her eyes. A story she holds in the depths of her soul. I know it as certainly as I knew this tree was her special place.

Questions form in my mind and I long to toss each of them in her direction. I realize how much I want to know her story. How much I need to know her story.

"What's your name?"

Her silence spurs me on.

"How old are you?"

I realize as I look at her that I can't really gauge her age. Her frame is so tiny, but there's a maturity to her face and eyes. She looks about seven or eight until you look at her face. Then she seems much older. Maybe she's near the age Annie would be now, if . . .

But I don't really know.

"Will you talk to me?"

I see her head turn—a slight shifting from left to right to left again—a barely noticeable movement.

"No? Oh . . ." My shoulders slump and I sigh. "Well, that's okay. I bet your parents told you not to talk to strangers. That's smart."

I wait, wondering what to do or say next. Maybe I should leave rather than keep up this one-sided conversation. Then I see her reach from Van toward me. I don't move. I wait to see what she wants. She sits back and puts her hand back on Van's head.

"It's okay," I whisper.

She stares at my face and then I see her gaze shift to my hair. She looks back at me with—another question reflected in her eyes.

"It's okay."

I lean toward her just a little and she reaches for me again, this time her hand brushes against my hair—her touch light as a butterfly.

"I have a lot of hair." There's nothing like stating the obvious. But the lump in my throat won't allow for more. I stare at her for a moment until I can speak again.

"You have a lot of hair too. Your hair is almost as long as mine." At this she averts her eyes from mine and looks at the ground. She reaches for her hair and runs her fingers through it. I notice spots where her hair is matted and tangled and I wonder when it was last brushed . . . or washed.

I notice other things too. Her jeans and T-shirt look almost new, but her feet are bare and dirty. And she's thin. So thin. I can see the outline of her ribs under her shirt and her elbows come to sharp points as they rest on her knees. And while there's still a smile in her eyes, her face is gaunt—cheekbones prominent, eyes sunken.

I reach for my backpack and pull out two granola bars. I set the backpack aside and sit on the ground in front of her. I open one of the bars and take a bite and hold the other one out to her.

"Here. Have a snack with me."

She reaches for the granola bar, takes it, and peels back the wrapper. She takes a small nibble and then a bite. And another. And another. Before I've had my second bite, her bar is almost gone.

Her obvious hunger enrages me. Who would allow a child to go without? Even if there isn't enough money for food, there are shelters, churches, places where a parent can get a meal for a child. There's no excuse for what I'm seeing.

I reach into my backpack again and pull out an apple—the last of the food I have with me. I offer it to her.

"Would you like this too?"

Her eyes meet the ground again and she suddenly seems shy.

"Go ahead. Really. I don't want it."

She looks back at me and reaches for the apple. She offers what I interpret as a smile of thanks before taking a bite.

We sit in companionable silence as she eats. I have so many questions for her, but I don't think I'll get answers. At least not today.

Now that I've found her, I realize I'm not sure what to do. Obviously she's undernourished, which counts as neglect in my mind. But I can't pack her up and take her with me, that's kidnapping. And unless the sheriff or someone from Child Welfare Services wants to hang around this tree and wait for her to show up, I have no address or information to give them as to where she lives or who her parents are. I don't even know her name.

I need a plan. And God has one—supposedly. Now might be a good time to fill me in on the details.

After she finishes the apple, I hold out my hand, and she places the core on my palm. This reminds me so much of something my mother would have done when I was a child—taking a gnawed apple, or a chewed piece of gum, or an olive pit from me, without a second thought. This is an act of motherhood. Moments like these are what I've missed. I look at this child and wonder . . . Does her mother appreciate the joy of such moments?

I lean back and set the core on the ground just outside the opening of the tree. "We'll leave it there for the birds and squirrels."

I reach again for my backpack and dig for the comb I keep there. I don't let myself think about what I'm doing. When I find the comb, I reach back and take the ponytail holder out of my hair. I shake my head and my hair falls loose around my shoulders and back. I run the comb through my hair a few times as I watch her watch me.

Then I stop and hold the comb out to her. "Would you like to comb it for me?"

She doesn't move. Instead, she seems to search my face, looking for . . . what? I don't know. Then she looks down again. After a moment she looks back at me. This time I see a slight blush color her checks—and something else—I see myself reflected in her eyes. I see fear, sadness, loneliness, and longing. My emotions—and hers.

I may not know who this child is, but I do know something about her. We share an understanding of grief. Again, I just know . . .

But what, at her age, does she grieve?

My wandering imagination pulls me from the moment.

She takes the comb from my hand and pulls me back.

She scoots closer to me, and I turn so that my back is to her. I know that sitting on the ground the way I am my hair is likely hanging in the dirt, but I don't care.

Her first strokes are slow—gentle. After a few minutes she stops. I wait and wonder what she's thinking. Then I feel the comb graze my back again and her strokes become more purposeful.

After she's combed my hair, the entire length of it, she gathers it together, holds it up, and combs through just the ends. I imagine that she's combing out the particles of dust and dirt that gathered as it rested on the forest floor.

She reaches around me, while still holding my hair, and places the comb on my knee. Then I feel her separate my hair into sections and I smile when I realize she's braiding it. I haven't braided my hair since high school.

When she's finished, without saying a word, she puts her hand over my shoulder, palm up. What does she want? When it occurs to me, I place the ponytail holder in her hand. With that, she ties off the heavy braid and swings it over my shoulder. She gets up, comes around to face me, and smiles at her creation.

"Okay, my turn." I pick up the comb and motion for her to sit in front of me.

She hesitates and I see her hand go again to a spot matted with tangles. She shakes her head. No.

"It's okay, I'll be gentle. Let's see if we can get those tangles out."

She stares at me for a minute, finally nods her consent, and sits down in front of me. I'm faced with a mass of knots. Before I begin combing, I lean over and whisper in her ear, "Are you sure you don't want to tell me your name?"

She doesn't respond except with another slight shake of her head.

"Okay, little one, we'll do it your way." In silence, I begin the process of untangling her hair—and my emotions.

CHAPTER TEN

Kaylee

I won't cry.

No matter what, I won't cry.

Or whine.

She starts with the hair just behind my left ear—there aren't any tangles there. First, she runs her fingers through my hair and the feel of her hand in my hair gives me goose bumps. I wrap my arms around myself.

"Did that tickle?"

I shrug my shoulders. She begins combing—taking long strokes from the top of my head to the bottom of my hair. After she combs that section a few times she runs her fingers through the other side. Almost immediately, her fingers catch in a knot and pull.

"Oh, I'm sorry. I'm going to try and work the knot out with the comb. Is that okay? I'll be gentle."

I nod. It is okay. I'll be good and sit still. I won't cry even if it hurts. But she is gentle—she holds the piece of hair just above the knot so it won't pull as she tries to untangle it with the comb.

While she works on the tangle, I remember the last time my mom combed my hair. It was the morning before she left for the store and didn't come back. That was the last time. Her hands shook as she pulled the comb through my wet hair. I asked her what was wrong, but she didn't say anything.

When she dropped the comb on the floor, she said a bad word.

On days when she was jittery and impatient like that, I knew she wasn't feeling good. She'd say, "It's a bad day, Kaylee. I just need a little something to make me feel better."

I didn't know how to make her feel better.

My throat aches and my eyes fill with tears. I won't cry! It's just that sometimes it feels like I'll never see my mom again—like she'll never come back. A tear slides down my check. I try to wipe it away without moving too much. Then I decide I have to think about something else.

I look straight ahead at the inside wall of the tree trunk. The burnt pattern on the inside looks like thousands of tiny puzzle pieces all connected. It looks like if you pushed on it, all the pieces would crumble and the trunk would fall apart and the whole tree would fall.

That's how I feel—like I'm fragmentizing—like all the pieces of me are coming apart.

"That was an awfully big sigh."

I jump and then feel my face get hot.

"Oops, are you okay? I didn't mean to startle you."

I shrug my shoulders. I don't know if I'm okay. She's so nice that it hurts. But how can someone being nice hurt? She's patient too. She's been working on just one knot for a long time. She combs it a little, then stops, then pulls it apart with her fingers, then combs it again.

"Am I hurting you? You'll let me know if I'm hurting you, right?"

I just keep nodding my head up and down or side to side when she asks her questions.

Sierra. I like her name. I wonder if she's named after the mountains called the Sierras? I learned about those in school. They're in Northern California.

Sierra
. . . I see her name in my mind written in cursive. A large sweeping
S,
a small
i
with a tiny circle for a dot, then a loopy
e,
and a hump for the
r,
then another one, and a round
a
with a little tail at the end.

I'll remember her name for a long time. Maybe forever.

I feel dumb not telling her my name or answering her questions. For a minute I thought she was going to leave when I wouldn't talk to her. I didn't want her to leave, but then I remembered what Emily Post wrote about the "personality of a handshake" and the "bow of a woman of charm." I guess those are considered nonverbal greetings. They must have worked because she stayed.

I think of what he calls me: "You stupid mute!" I looked up
mute
in the dictionary once. It said someone who's mute is "dumb, silent, not speaking, unable to speak; dumb." It used the word
dumb
twice in the definition. So I guess he's at least right about something.

As she combs, I consider—
consider
is just another way of saying
think
—all the things I'd tell her if I could. First, I'd say
thank you.
Grammy always said that you have to be polite to people—it's respectful. She probably learned that from reading
Etiquette.
So I'd say
Thank you for the granola bar and the apple.
I'd also tell her that I like her dog.
He's funny, and soft, and he didn't scare me.