“Whatever makes this safe enough.”
She stared at him.
“You’ve thought about this.”
“I have a daughter.”
“That doesn’t explain everything.”
“It explains a lot.”
The Woman looked toward the child again.
The little girl waved.
The Woman slowly raised one gloved hand.
The child waved harder.
The Woman looked back at the Single Dad.
“All right.”
He nodded.
“How do you want to transfer?”
That question did more than all the others.
The Woman exhaled.
“I can do most of it.”
“Tell me where you need hands.”
He listened.
Not pretending.
Actually listened.
She locked the chair.
Moved the blanket.
Positioned herself.
He steadied her forearm only when she asked.
No lifting without warning.
No grabbing under her arms.
No sudden movements.
She transferred into the front passenger seat.
He adjusted nothing until she asked.
Then he returned for the wheelchair.
The Woman watched through the window.
He removed the wheels.
Folded the chair carefully.
Loaded everything into the truck bed beneath a waterproof cover.
Then checked once that nothing could slide.
When he climbed behind the wheel, his daughter leaned forward.
“Hi.”
The Woman turned.
“Hi.”
“I’m four.”
“I can see that.”
The child frowned.
“How?”
The Woman smiled.
“Magic.”
The little girl immediately liked her.
The Single Dad turned up the heater.
“Everybody buckled?”
His daughter answered yes.
The Woman did too.
They pulled away.
For several minutes, nobody spoke.
The Woman held her hands near the vent.
Warmth hurt at first.
Pins and needles returned to her fingers.
The Single Dad glanced over.
“Better?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
His daughter said:
“My daddy makes bad soup.”
The Single Dad stared into the mirror.
“Excuse me?”
The girl continued.
“It tastes like water.”
“It was vegetable soup.”
“It was vegetable water.”
The Woman laughed.
The Single Dad sighed.
“Please stop reviewing my cooking for strangers.”
“She should know.”
The Woman looked toward him.
“I appreciate the warning.”
He smiled.
Something about the sound of her laughter affected him more than it should have.
He had known her twenty minutes.
That was ridiculous.
He concentrated on the road.
The Woman’s phone vibrated.
One percent.
Then shut off.
She stared at the black screen.
The Single Dad noticed.
“Charger?”
“Different connector.”
“I probably have one at home.”
She nodded.
She did not explain that six people were likely trying to find her.
Not because she wanted to deceive him.
Because the moment she said who she was, everything changed.
It always did.
The house was small.
One-story.
White siding.
A porch light glowing beneath heavy snow.
A child’s plastic sled leaned against the garage.
The Single Dad parked as close to the walkway as possible.