Becca eased herself off the couch. “Ash! Freud! We overslept,” she called out, waiting for Freud to come bounding down the hall. She was met with an overwhelming silence. Becca headed upstairs and back down the hall. “Hey, Ash, rise and shine. It’s time to wake,” Becca called out.

No one responded. Becca pushed open Ash’s door and gasped. The bedspread was lying in a heap on the floor. The drawers were half-open, clothing and papers strewn about the room. Becca’s heart dropped. Ash always kept everything spotless, her bed neatly made, clothes hung in tidy rows, organized by style and color. This was common with foster kids. Keep everything neat and tidy, don’t make any messes, and maybe they’ll let you stay. If you don’t, it’s easy to pack it all up again. Becca swallowed hard, trying to remain calm. She could imagine Ash teasing her about overreacting. “Becca you really need to chill,” she would say. Don’t panic yet.

She turned on her heels, doing another loop around the house. “Ash! Freud!” Becca shouted, unable to control the frenzied tone. She searched the guest room and her bedroom. No sign of them. Becca grabbed her cell phone and dialed. Ash’s voice mail picked up on the first ring. “This is Ash. Leave a message. Or better yet text me.”

“Ash, it’s Becca. Where are you? Please call me back. I’m worried,” Becca said. She hung up and sent a quick text. Please call me. I woke up and you weren’t here. I’m very worried!

They probably just went on a walk. That’s all, Becca told herself. She threw on her sneakers and ran outside, doing a loop around the neighborhood. She knocked on neighbors’ doors asking if they’d seen Ash or Freud, to no avail.

Her heart was pounding, dread settling in her stomach. Becca returned home and made her way back to Ash’s room. She needed to focus, make sure she wasn’t overreacting before she sounded the alarm bells. If she contacted the police and Ash’s social worker, she might jeopardize the adoption. She scanned the room, her heart pounding as she caught sight of a note on Ash’s bedside table, Becca’s name written in Ash’s neat cursive scrawl. Her hands trembled as she read.

Becca, I’m so sorry. I can’t stay here anymore. It’s nothing
you did. You’ve been amazing and so good to me. I hope one
day I can explain everything. I love you.

PS Don’t be mad about Freud. I’ll take good care of him.