I remember the gray sky above the scrap piles. I remember the smell of rust, wet cardboard, and stray dogs. I remember thinking, with a clarity no seven-year-old should have, that I did not want to die without ever knowing what it felt like to have a real mother.
I reached through damp cardboard with my left hand, looking for something to wrap around my arm. My fingers found a stiff, crumpled sheet of paper. I pulled it free. It was a rain-damaged color flyer, but still readable. I dragged myself closer to the edge of the barrel and held it up toward a distant streetlight.
Then I saw her.
The girl in the picture looked about my age. She wore a red knitted poncho and had the kind of smile that hurt to look at—soft, loved, untouched by the hardness I knew. She did not look like anyone in Pine Hollow.
Under the picture were the words: MISSING: LILA.
I kept reading, moving my lips over the words.
Dark mole behind right ear. Small birthmark on left forearm.
My heart jolted.
I reached behind my ear. The mole was there. Evelyn had always called it my “witch mark.” Then I rubbed the dirt from my left forearm and saw the faint shape of the birthmark emerge like a small cloud.