Amy rubbed her eyes, she was tired, and hungry. No one was home, which meant no one was there to materialize – or make – food. She’d walked into the kitchen and found some of the cookies Alyxa had made for them a few days before and managed not to spill all the milk in her attempt to pour it into a glass. Where did they go? And why had no one thought for a moment ‘wait, someone needs to stay here with Amy’. It was very – what was the word that her Daddy had used? - thoughtless. Yes. Thoughtless. She munched on a cookie, ignoring the fact that there was a trail of crumbs that tumbled in her wake. Maybe she would watch some television in her room. A few days ago a television had appeared on a brand new cabinet in a corner of her room, a corner that had not been there the day before. Amy took these things for granted, however, and did not let it bother her. There was a knock on the door and Amy rushed towards it, then slowed, remembering the things she had been told over the years, even with the Bad Lady.
“Who is it?” she called tentatively, hoping she sounded less excited than she was.
“Amy Dawson?” a man asked her.
Amy frowned. Her seven-year-old mind was trying very hard to remember everything she should and shouldn’t do.
“Amy? Is the woman who took you at home?”
“I’m not supposed to talk to strangers,” Amy told the man on the other side.
The doorknob rattled for a moment.
“I just want to talk.”
“Who are you?”
“Amy, your parents are dead, you’re alone,” he sounded rushed.
“Then it is lucky that I am here, is it not, sweet?” a woman’s voice asked.
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