I had forgotten what it was like to breathe without checking my phone every few seconds. My sister had nearly pushed me on the plane, claiming that I needed a break from running my software company.
I’d been in this small coastal town for three days, and while its appeal was evident (weathered boardwalks and salt-sprayed businesses), I felt out of place.
That morning, I decided to expend some of my restless energy by running through the peaceful streets.
“Mister, wait! Mister! I know you!”
A little girl, maybe eight years old, was sprinting toward me, her wild locks bouncing with each step.
“Mister, come with me! To my mom! Come on!”
I softly but firmly drew my hand away, alarms ringing in my thoughts. “Wait, little one. What’s your name? And how do you know me?”
“My name’s Miranda! Your picture is in my mom’s wallet! I see it all the time!”
“Miranda, that’s… that’s impossible. I don’t know anyone here.”
“Yes, you do! You know my mom!”
“Who’s your mom? And why would she have my picture?”
“Julia! My mom’s name is Julia!” She bounced on her toes, almost quivering with excitement. “She looks at your picture sometimes when she thinks I’m not watching. She gets all quiet after.”
“I’ll walk with you, but no hand-holding, okay? I don’t want anyone thinking I’m up to no good.”
