I found a broken shard of mirror among the trash and angled it toward the light. My face was filthy, gaunt, bruised by hunger and cold. But the eyes were the same. The brows were the same. The forehead was the same.
At the bottom of the flyer was a phone number and a reward that meant nothing to me. Money belonged to some other world. I understood only this: if I was really that girl, then someone had been looking for me. Someone who might not hit me for reaching toward food. Someone who might, maybe, give me soup without insults.
In the hidden pocket of my pants, I kept my most valuable possession: a worn one-dollar coin I had earned carrying firewood. I clenched it so tightly it marked my palm.
Then I crawled out of the barrel.
The pay phone stood outside the post office near the center of town. The walk there felt endless. More than once I fell into the snow. More than once I thought about turning back, climbing into the barrel, and letting myself sleep. But I kept going, dragging one leg, pressing the flyer to my chest like it was something holy.