Coincidence.
Children said thousands of things.
Eventually one came true.
That had been Kendra’s explanation.
“What else?”
The girl stirred cereal.
“The dog.”
“What dog?”
“Mr. Benson’s.”
Kendra remembered the neighbor’s missing beagle.
Adeline had pointed toward a drainage culvert two blocks away.
They found the dog there.
Kendra sat back.
She had noticed each event individually.
She had never put them together.
That frightened her more than anything from the highway.
“Why didn’t you tell me Claire was helping?”
“I did.”
“No, you said you had an imaginary friend.”
Adeline frowned.
“You said imaginary.”
Kendra had no answer.
“Can other people see her?”
“No.”
“Can you hear her like you hear me?”
“Sometimes.”
“What does her voice sound like?”
Adeline looked toward the window.
“Warm.”
That was not helpful.
“Does she tell you to do dangerous things?”
“No.”
“Did she tell you to run down the hill yesterday?”
Adeline lowered her head.
“Yes.”
Kendra became firm.
“You never do that again.”
“But—”
“No.”
“Adeline, I don't care who tells you someone needs help. You tell me. You stay where I put you. That hill could have hurt you.”
The girl looked ashamed.
“Okay.”
Kendra softened.
She reached across the table.
“I believe you saw something.”
Adeline looked up quickly.
“I don't understand it.”
The child's eyes filled.
“But I believe you.”
Adeline moved around the table and climbed into her mother’s lap.
Kendra held her.
For the first time since the accident, some of the fear eased.
Not because she understood.
Because maybe she did not have to understand immediately.
The hospital visit happened that afternoon.
Kendra almost canceled three times.
Adeline insisted they bring flowers.
They stopped at a grocery store and bought the cheapest bouquet that did not look depressing.
The biker floor smelled like every hospital.
Antiseptic.
Coffee.
Plastic.
Kendra signed them in.
Two riders waited near the elevators.
They stood when Adeline appeared.
Neither approached.
Good.
The leader came from the waiting room.
He was dressed differently without his sunglasses and road gear.
Still intimidating.
Less impossible.
His eyes went immediately to the girl.
Then he looked at Kendra.
“Thank you for coming.”
“We're here for ten minutes.”
“Understood.”
He did not argue.
They walked toward the room.
Adeline suddenly stopped.
“What?”
Kendra asked.
The little girl pointed toward an elderly rider sitting by the window.
“You’re supposed to call your daughter.”
The man froze.
The leader closed his eyes.
“Adeline.”
Kendra crouched.
“We're not doing this right now.”
The girl whispered:
“But—”
“No.”
The older biker stared.
“My daughter?”
Kendra stood.
“I’m sorry.”
The man looked disturbed.
“I haven't spoken to her in two years.”
The leader said softly:
“Maybe call her.”
The man swore under his breath and looked away.
Kendra took Adeline's hand.