“Who are they?”

“They said Jonathan’s old plant. Letty heard his name and refused to leave the office. Piper, she’s safe, but everyone’s emotional. You need to come now.”

Then the call ended.

I stood frozen, looking at my phone as the water kept running. Letty’s backpack was gone. Jonathan was gone.

And fear, I had discovered, did not wait to be invited.

The previous night, I had found my daughter standing barefoot in the middle of it.

“Letty?” I’d knocked once on the bathroom door. “Honey, can I come in?”

She was standing before the mirror with kitchen scissors in one hand and a ribbon-tied bundle of hair in the other. Her hair had been chopped to her shoulders, uneven and jagged, and her chin trembled.

First, I looked down at the floor. Then I looked at her. “Letty… what did you do?”

She lifted her shoulders as if preparing herself for a blow. “Don’t be mad.”

“I’m trying very hard to start somewhere before mad.”

That pulled the smallest breath from her, but tears filled her eyes anyway.

“There’s a girl in my class named Millie,” she said. “She’s in remission, but her hair still hasn’t grown back right. Today the boys laughed at her in science. She cried in the bathroom, Mom. I heard her.”

Letty raised the ribboned hair. “I looked it up. Real hair can go into wigs. And mine won’t be enough by itself, but maybe it can help.”

“Baby…”

“I know it looks awful.”

“Like you fought hedge clippers and barely won,” I said.