Dr. Nasele.

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I'm not sure what wakes me.

Maybe it's the low thrum of the diesel engine vibrating the walls.

Or the cold cone of light, spilling across my trailer park, sealing it too in the morning.

Whatever it is, it pulls me toward the window, groggy eyed and yawning.

I part the blinds, expecting to see some grumbling semi-driver clunking another mobile home

into place.

But instead, I see her.

She climbs from an old Ford F-50, towing the ground like it's a thin sheet of ice.

Just one foot, and then the other, easing from the seat with a quick glance up at the

street light.

I think she's around my age, 15, or maybe a bit younger.

Her eyes are encased in a heart-shaped face.

Her features delicate, with an upturned nose centered over a chin that looks carved

from glass.

Something about her reminds me of the porcelain dolls mom keeps stashed on the top shelf

of a closet.

The ones trimmed in lace with their skin glazed and shining.

...