“Time is the answer, Sammy.” W rocketed out of the parking lot and up the street, the windshield wipers going crazy and the rain a sheet. In less than half a minute, we’d pulled into her driveway.

“We’ll be soaked on the way in. Let’s wait.” W left the ignition on and watched the windshield wipers go back and forth, and it was like sitting in the Cedar Point parking lot with you. I didn’t want to be where I was, but I didn’t know where else to be.

“I want to go home.”

“I know. This can be your home. Like I told your mother: You guys’ll be safe here.”

When the rain tapered off, W lifted me out of the car. I squirmed in her arms.

“I want to walk.”

She put me down. “Sorry, honey. You’re like my own little girl.” She paused on the stoop, fumbling with her keys. “I won’t tell her. I won’t tell your Mama that you ran away.”

Inside, you were sitting in the middle of the living room floor, wrapped in an afghan that was usually draped over the basement couch.

“It’s cold,” you said. “Where were you guys? Where did you take her?”

“You need broth.” W tossed her coat on the floor and went straight to the kitchen. “Ah fuck—who made this mess?”

“What mess?” you said.

“Nothing,” said W. “Talking to myself.”

The phone rang. I’d never heard it ring before. No one ever called W.

“Someone’s been calling,” you said. “Don’t answer the phone. Where were you?”

“At the movies,” W said. “I’ll be in the kitchen. Call if you need something.”

I stayed with you and listened to W as she cleaned up the mess I’d made. She was singing a song I’d heard on the radio, something about Sailor Sam.

“A song for you, Sammy,” she said.

You sipped the Lipton’s cup of soup she made you. W and I spread jam on toast—there was no more peanut butter—and chewed it slowly. When you trudged downstairs with the afghan draped over your head, I followed you. I put my giraffe pajamas on, and once you’d nodded off, I crept upstairs to sleep among the plants. Poppy was already nestled between a fern and the ficus. I pushed pots aside and lay my head on Poppy’s ginger-colored side. She lifted her head, bit my cheek, decided she didn’t care, and curled her head into her paws.

When I think about home, I think about that spot, Poppy and the pots, the low leafy canopy of houseplants that made me feel like I was not stuck between four walls. And W taking care of us, though I hated the fact that she cut my hair. I was learning to forget my father. I was learning to sleep wherever I needed to.