Run Darlin' Run

Rainy, Cold and American History

Then

A tiny girl sat quite fidgety on the steps of their family home, watching with clear apprehension at the young man who stood near the entryway. It was clear to those who bothered to catch his eye that the young man did not belong there despite the air of death and loss that dripped from him. But he wasn't here for them. He was here for two things and two things only; the man whose picture sat adorned in morning by the fireplace and the little girl who had turned her attention from him to her dress.

She looked just like her mother, as though a picture from years past had peeled itself off the page and was walking about. Her dark hair was yanked up into a pony tail, a white bow perched onto her tiny head. The young child had taken to standing, a restless hand pulling angrily at white pantyhose. He found himself smiling as her mother curtly reprimanded the action, the child's face contorting in that rather rebellious way all young children seem to have. Once her mother's back was turned, the child spitefully kicked her tiny black paten shoes off and threw them up the stairs. His smile grew. Just like her mother indeed.

Squatting to reach her level, the stranger carefully beckoned the child over with a finger. Those eyes he'd seen in a different face fluttered with hesitant recognition. She remembers him now, he thinks, as she pads her way across the family room and towards the entryway. That little, frilly red dress was caked with mud at the hem, something that, he assumed, went unknown to her mother.

She stayed a few feet back, tiny hands clasped behind her back and torso bent forward in carful curiosity. "You're not supposed to be here. Mommy doesn't like it when daddy's friends come inside the house," she announced, looking genuinely concerned for his wellbeing against the threat of her mother's wrath.

With a chuckle, the stranger pulled a small box from his jacket pocket. "Don't worry. I promise I will not stay very long, little one," he smiled, gesturing to her clasped hands with the box, "But I have come to say goodbye to your mother and give you a gift," he explained, gently pressing the box into her tiny hands.

Those bright eyes lit up, looking more orange than the electric brown he thought them to be. Apprehension slipped into his stomach as he watched her examine the gift. Those of her kind usually did not make it to adulthood, some not even into their teens. He wondered if this girl would.

"Now don't go telling your mother I have given you that," he warns, winking when she opens the box and grins, "You know how she feels about chocolate."

The child giggled, previous hesitation and fear gone from her features. "Mommy won't get mad if I share," she assures, putting the box under her arm and reaching forward in that way all children do when they desire to be picked up.

The stranger breathed a laughed, obliging by placing the squirmy child on his hip. "You remember me then," he stated, walking further into the family room and away from the slight breeze that blew from the cracked windows.

It was nearing the dead of winter, that time when the humans celebrated Christmas, but the child he held was beginning to sweat in spite of this. The dread he'd felt earlier only intensified. She was sick and now that he was holding her, the evidence of that was clearer. Her breathing was shallow, slower than most children her age, and there were dark circles under her eyes. To most, she seems to have some variation of the flu but to the stranger? He felt it could very well be much, much worse.

"Oh yes, but daddy said you had to go away for a while so I wasn't sure at first," the young child explained, her tiny fingers threading themselves absently into his long hair, "Daddy lies sometimes though. Says I have to keep secrets for a game but I know that is a lie. Grownups say that when they want the kids to keep quiet. I'm smart, so I know that."