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Chapter 7

Rex Marshall leaned back in his leather chair and stared out his office window as the sun rose over Asheville. He'd had a restless night. He could tell that Joan hadn't slept any better. His wife tossed and turned most of the night and Rex guessed that thoughts of Belle were keeping her up as well. She voiced her suspicions the day before when Belle phoned to cancel their dinner date. Joan told him she had detected a note of urgency in Belle's voice and was afraid she was going on another witch hunt. Rex tried consoling her, telling her Belle very well could be swamped with her new design business and needed Sunday to catch up. He could tell by the way she acted the rest of the day that she didn't believe it. Rex was afraid he didn't believe it himself.

He understood the curiosity of one searching for their birth parents. He also knew that learning the truth was not always in the best interest of the adopted child. That was especially true in Belle's case. He'd tried calmly explaining to her that digging through the past would be long and tedious, and that the end result might not be worth the effort. Belle eventually dropped the subject, but he and Joan had a sinking feeling that she had not forgotten about it.

Rex checked his watch. He worked for a major brokerage firm and the building would soon be swarming with personnel and clients. He'd have to put thoughts of Belle aside and focus on his work. How he'd manage it, he didn't know. All he knew was that Belle was better off not knowing of her first eight years of life. For if she dug too deep, she just might unearth some dirt that even Joan didn't know about.

* * * * * * * * * *

Bleary-eyed and exhausted, Belle reached for the off button on her alarm clock. She'd checked her appointment book when she arrived home late last night and knew she had a busy schedule. And as much as she loved her design business and felt such a sense of accomplishment with each new creation, she wished she had an assistant to turn it over to this particular morning. It was going to be hard to concentrate on anything other than what she'd learned from Doris Felton.

She crawled from the bed and entered the bathroom. Splashing cold water on her face, she tried to wash away all signs of a troubled sleep. She patted her face dry with a towel and stared at her reflection. Good morning, Jessie Simms, she thought to herself. But even as the name traveled through her thoughts, it didn't sound natural. Annabelle Marshall was beginning to take on a surreal quality too. She was now convinced that she was Jessie Simms, but she still had no memories of the young girl who clung to her eccentric uncle as if he were the only anchor in her life.

It was obvious that both Mory and his mother saw something recognizable in Belle's face. Both thought she had been to the diner before. But it was what Doris Felton had shared with Belle - and Belle's reaction to what she heard - that cinched it for Belle. She was definitely Jessie Simms and had no idea what that meant.

Doris had leaned over the table, her hands wrapped firmly around a coffee mug. "Rueben Simms came here a lot. He even brought recipes for me to try. He thought it would be neat if we offered a limited time only dish and watch the results. Most of his dishes didn't belong in this diner with my regulars. Set a chicken fried steak in front of them and they're happy. Anyway," she said, then took a sip of her coffee, "I will never forget the day he came in here and told us about Jessie going off with her mama. Her mama, I believe her name was Sylvia, showed up with one of her good-for-nothing boyfriends and Jessie went ballistic. Rueben said she kept screaming 'no, I don't want to go. I'm scared of the water! He puts me in the water and I can't breathe. No! I won't go! Don't make me go, Uncle Rueben'."

Doris shook her head as she remembered that day. "I don't know what the poor child meant. But the townsfolk began talking about it and when Jessie never came back, they said she was drowned."

For a reason Belle couldn't understand, her throat suddenly closed up and she gasped for air. She didn't know if her arms were flailing or if they just felt like it. Her legs seemed to move as if she were struggling for footing, and the alarm on Doris's face was distorted for an instant, as if a murky film had suddenly divided the diner table.

"He tried to drown me," Belle whispered in response to Doris's unasked question. "I remember the struggle, the fear. I don't know who saved me. I can't see any faces, but I know it happened. I felt it just now . . ."

Doris had stared at her with a blank look on her face. She reached over and cupped Belle's chin in her hands and examined her closely. "For goodness sakes," she exclaimed. "It is you, Jessie. What in the world happened? Where have you been? What became . . ."

Belle held up a hand to silence her. "I don't know," she said, still shaken by the revelation. "I was adopted when I was eight. Only now I'm getting brief flashbacks to my life before that. I need to know more. Please tell me more."

Doris glanced toward the kitchen where she knew Mory would be washing dishes. "Mory will be thrilled," she revealed. "Once he's able to comprehend this, he will be thrilled."

"May we talk again?" Belle persisted. "Next weekend, you, Mory and I can talk again?"

Doris had assured her that they would. Belle left the diner and drove back to Asheville, her mind trying so hard to pull up more memories from the past. Sometimes she could hear a man's voice telling her to clean her plate, or stop slamming a door, or asking if she wanted her long dark hair in pretty French braids. Mostly, though, she could feel the tighening in her chest, the gulps of water filling her lungs, and a strong need to fight for her life. Only words, a feeling, and no faces to help her sort it out.

Now, in the light of a brand new day, her confusion was still there. She knew she was Jessie Simms, but she knew nothing else. She didn't even know when she stopped being Jessie and started being Annabelle. More than ever before, she needed answers from her family. She would call a meeting, perhaps after she met again with the Feltons, and tell them what she knew. She'd remind them again of her love and devotion to them for all they'd done for her, but she had a right to know where she was born and who had given her life. It was such a simple thing that all children knew about themselves. She had a right to that information too. Her birth mother was Sylvia Simms but Belle knew nothing about her or the name of her father. Doris hadn't had much good to say about Sylvia, but that was okay. Belle still had a right to know.

Knowing she had to get on with her day and meet the commitments she had made, Belle took her coffee and sat in front of her computer. Suddenly, she remembered the e-mail that had lead her to Coal Junction and the mystery man who had called her on Taylor's phone. Taylor! What had happened to Taylor? How had Belle forgotten about her cousin? Had she been so wrapped up in her own life that she had easily forgotten about his? Quickly, she reached for her cell phone and punched the buttom that would connect her to Taylor. It was picked up on the first ring.

"Hi Jessie," the strange voice said. "How'd you like your reunion with the retard?"

Chapter 6

Mory’s face wrinkled in confusion. “No, no. Jessie’s gone, Jessie’s done gone.”

Belle continued, “But you said no one ever found a body…it is still possible. I feel--”

Visibly shaken Mory interrupted her, “No, ma’am. You said your name is ‘Belle’ and Jessie ain’t here no more. No…no…no.” The few diners lingering from the lunch crowd began to take notice of the disturbance at the corner table. And, alarmed by the sudden shift in her son’s demeanor, Doris hurried over to the table. “What’s going on, Mory?”

“Mama, this lady thinks she is Jessie. But Jessie is drowned and it makes me so sad to think about it. Tell her, Mama. Jessie’s gone.”

Doris slipped her arm around Mory and agreed, “Yes, Mory, you are right. It was a sad day when we lost little Jessie. Now, Honey, let me finish up here. Dougie needs some help with the dishes in the back.” Mory threw a suspicious look Belle’s way before shuffling back to the kitchen. He was thankful his mama was there to set this lady straight; and by the time he made it to the sink, he forgot the whole matter, just happy to suds up with Dougie.

Doris slid in the booth opposite Belle, “Okay, Honey, tell me what is going on.”

Belle felt a little reluctance at first but then, with nothing to lose, the words tumbled out. She tried to summarize the last 20 years and the recent events that led her to this very town and café.

Detecting the desperation in Belle’s voice, Doris reached out her hand to clasp Belle’s. “Oh, my dear. Listen, I will tell you everything I know. Can you sit a while? We will have a lull before the early birds come in for dinner. I want to help, if I can.”

“Yes, please, tell me anything you can remember. I feel so close—closer than ever—to knowing my true identity. But, first, is this Rueben in prison for murder? With no body, how was he convicted?” Belle had a million questions, it seemed, and just needed to get started.

“Oh, no, Honey. That is what Mory told you? Well, Rueben has been in prison for the last 3 years for tax evasion. Poor Mory, he hears all kinds of gossip waiting these tables. People ‘round here all have their own theories about Jessie and her Uncle Rueben. When Jessie first disappeared, Rueben was indeed a suspect for a short time. Many people were plum sure that he did it—not many folks understood Rueben and they were anxious to pass off the disappearance to the queer in the green house. Well, after the police wrote him off as a suspect, Rueben packed up all his stuff and left town. Just like that. We didn’t hear a word about him for like 15 or 16 years. No one knew where he went. Of course, that just fueled the gossip fire! But I knew he was a good guy and would never hurt that girl. I didn’t blame him for wantin’ to get out of here. No one looked at him the same. Finally, a few years ago we found out they got him for tax evasion. Well, a lot of folks think he is gittin’ what he deserves—no matter what the conviction, at least he is all locked up.”

“So, what about Jessie? Was it left as an unsolved case?”

“I suppose. They never found a body or any promisin’ leads. Not long after she disappeared, a body of a girl washed up on Lake Dillon. Oh, everyone just knew it was Jessie; but she was identified as a girl from Fairview. Her parents were charged—God bless her soul. But it only started rumors that Jessie could be found floating on some lake, too. Believe me, when something like this happens in a town like Coal J., it makes waves and becomes the stuff of legends.” Doris waved for another pot of coffee.

Belle’s stomach twisted with each sentence. How was she linked to this tragic tale, to the green house, to two dolls that once belonged to this pitiful little girl. Certainly, she could be Jessie—but how did she go from Jessie to Annabelle Mitchell. There were still too many missing pieces, and she wasn’t convinced yet that she was, in fact, that little girl.

“And Jessie’s mother? Mory said she was flighty—how does she figure into all this?”

“Honey, little Jessie, in my opinion, didn’t have a mother. That poor girl was like an unwanted puppy dog to her mama. That lady dropped her off at Rueben’s any chance she got—and Rueben, bless his heart, was not suited to keep a child, but he tried the best he knew how.”

“And the disappearance? Where was Jessie? Her mother?”

Doris again waved for the coffee. “Where is that coffee? We are going to need it.”

Chapter 5

With a wide smile on his face, Mory Felton shuffled toward the front door of the diner to welcome the pretty customer. He couldn't remember seeing her there before, but his Mama had told him that everyone was welcome and should be treated as such. He pointed the young woman to a table by the window and handed her a menu. He loved greeting the customers. His Mama said he had a natural talent for it. She said he was friendly and had a handsome smile and that he was very good for business. He liked that. His Mama was so good to him that he wanted her diner full of people who gave his Mama their business.

The smile still on his face, Mory pulled his note pad from his pocket. "Good afternoon. I'm Mory and I will be your server today." Those words made Mory feel so important. He had a special job and Mama always told him he did it well. "Could I get you something to drink?"

The woman was already scanning the menu and looked up briefly at Mory. "Coffee, please."

Mory hurried to the counter and poured the coffee, then slowed his pace as he carried it to her table. He had a tendency to hurry and Mama said his eagerness was a good thing, but that he might spill the food or drinks on himself or the customers and that would be a bad thing.

"What can I get for you?" he asked with enthusiasm.

"I'll have the club sandwich," the woman answered.

"You from the big city?" Mory asked. "You don't look like anybody from Coal Junction, but we're happy to have you just the same."

She seemed to study his face for a moment before answering. "Yes, I'm from the big city. Have you lived in Coal Junction all your life, Mory?"

She'd remembered his name. That was important. Maybe she worked in a diner in the big city and knew the customers liked to be called by name. "I been here all my life," Mory stated with pride. "Mama took me to the big city once to see a doctor. He said I was different and Mama said that was good. We are all different and that's what makes us interesting." Mory tilted his head and eyed her carefully. He knew he wasn't supposed to stare. Mama said that made people uncomfortable. He knew he never liked it when people stared at him. Usually when they stared, they called him names that weren't very nice. "You've been here before," he said with conviction.

"No," she said quickly. "I was just driving through and got a little lost. I passed an old gas station and came to a dead end. There was an old house . . ."

Mory nodded knowingly. "That was Mr. Rueben's house. He don't live there no more."

"Yes," she said. "I noticed it was deserted." She suddenly reached out her hand to Mory. "I'm Belle. Could we talk some more after you turn in my sandwich order?"

"I'm so sorry," he stuttered. "I'll be right back."

More apologies were on his lips when he returned, but Belle brushed them off. "I'm enjoying our talk," she told him. "I'm fascinated by small towns and the history that surrounds them. So, tell me, did this Mr. Rueben live alone?"

Mory's smile returned. This nice woman liked talking to him and didn't seem to care that he was different. "Oh, no. Jessie lived with him most of the time. Jessie loved living with her Uncle Rueben."

"What about Jessie's parents? Why didn't she live with them?"

"Jessie didn't have no daddy. And her mama took her for visits sometimes. I didn't like it when she went away. But Mr. Rueben said she'd be back 'cause her mama was flighty. That's what he said."

"How old was Jessie?"

"Not very old. She was a pretty little girl. We used to play in her yard and Mr. Rueben would make us sandwiches and lemonade. She was my best friend. Mean old Walter at school would make fun of her because she was friends with a retard. I don't know what that means, but my Mama said it was not nice to call someone a retard. And mean old Walter made fun of Jessie because her uncle was different. Not different the same as me, but another kind of different. I was happy when he moved away."

"And what about Jessie? Did she move away too?"

Mory looked down at his scuffed shoes as a strange sound came from deep in his throat. "People say Jessie died a horrible death."

"What happened?" Belle asked.

Mory turned as his mother approached the table with the club sandwich. He'd forgotten to check on Belle's meal and he felt bad about it. She was so kind and seemed so interested in what he had to say. Mama set the sandwich on the table in front of Belle and patted Mory's shoulder. "Introduce me to your friend, Mory."

His ever present smile returning, Mory made the introduction. "This is Belle. She's very nice, Mama."

"Hello, Belle. I'm Doris Felton, Mory's mother. Welcome back."

"Back? You must have me confused with someone else. This is my first time here."

"She drove by Mr. Rueben's house, Mama, and we started talking about Jessie."

Doris smiled warmly as she patted Mory's shoulder again. "Let Miss Belle enjoy her meal."

Disappointed, but knowing his Mama was right, Mory turned to follow her. Belle's voice stopped him. "Please, what happened to Jessie?"

"I don't know, Ma'am. People said she was drowned. But nobody's ever found her."

Belle nodded and pushed her uneaten sandwich aside. "And what happened to Mr. Rueben?"

Mory shook his head as he sucked in a deep breath. "They took him away. He's in that bad place where they put people who kill. I don't like to think of Mr. Rueben in a place like that. He would never hurt Jessie."

"They think he is responsible for Jessie's disappearance?" Belle asked.

"Yes, Ma'am, and Mr. Rueben loved Jessie as much as I did. See them two angels on the shelf over there?" Mory pointed to the wall opposite them. "Mr. Rueben gave them to Mama and me. They are guardian angels. A man who believes in guardian angels wouldn't hurt nobody. I think of him every time I look at them angels and hope Mr. Rueben has a guardian angel too."

"Maybe he does, Mory," Belle said as her eyes remained glued on the two statuettes on the shelf. "Maybe you are his guardian angel, Mory."

Puzzled, but smiling anyway, Mory followed her gaze to the angels. "I'd like that very much. But if I'm his guardian angel, how can I bring him home from that bad place?"

Belle's hand reached for Mory's and she gripped it firmly. "Please help me, Mory. I think I'm Jessie. I think I'm the little girl who lived in that green house with Uncle Rueben."

Chapter 4

Looking at the two tattered dolls on the equally worn front porch seemed a million miles away from Belle’s normal routine that morning. She had woken up seven minutes before the alarm went off, anxious to go on her daily run. The autumn air had rushed through her lungs invigorating her every step; and as she passed familiar landmarks on her 3-mile route she mentally mapped out her day. Make coffee, throw a bagel in the toaster, shower, and sit for an hour or so at her computer desk to enter invoices. Even though it was Sunday, she had planned to eliminate this boring task before the new week started.

She had just landed a big account and she wanted to focus on her clients and not bookkeeping when Monday rolled around. Funny, when she imagined having her own design business this paperwork chore never entered her dreams of late nights shuffling through fabric swatches and paint chips and thrilling hunts for the perfect piece of furniture. But if she continued to get big jobs she may be able to expand her one-woman enterprise to include an assistant for the more mundane aspects of the job.

Belle’s mother, Joan, had called the night before, too, hoping to schedule a Sunday dinner with her daughter. Visits with Belle were scarce now that her business was taking off and Joan relished any time she could arrange. La Vista, a favorite Italian restaurant near downtown, was offering live jazz on Sunday evenings. Belle agreed that enjoying a leisurely dinner with her mother was just what she needed to clear her head and prepare her for another grueling week. Plus, it would give her something to look forward to while she attacked the stack of receipts and work orders.

Belle rounded the last corner to her townhouse. The autumn chill did nothing to temper the energy she expended on her run. Sweat sprung on her forehead—the shower would feel good.

Normal. That is how Belle’s day started. And, now, she stood nearly one hundred miles from her home looking at two very ghoulish dolls. All it took was opening her email account before tackling work that morning to resurrect her intense desire to find out where Annabelle Marshall came from. The message, with “For Annabelle” as the subject, had an unfamiliar email address.

Belle’s curiosity quickly dissolved into anxiety as she scrolled through the message. No identification or name of the sender was given, but the person clearly knew Belle. Various details of her life with Joan were listed as well as an account of various past attempts by Belle to unveil her first 8 years of life. And, then, the person ended the email with the house. Directions out of the city, out of the suburbs, out to the country. Usually a skeptical person, Belle, however, sensed a certain viability about the message. Anyone who knew such intimate details of her life would not pull a cruel prank on her in this way.

Hope welled up again, somewhat cautiously, but it was that hope that kept Belle searching. Yet, it was the same hope she had tried to stifle for the last three years. Her last unfruitful search left Joan emotionally battered and feeling betrayed and worried. She was hurting the people who had loved her and nurtured her through who-knows-what. And it was driving Belle crazy, too. The sleepless nights trying to piece the clues together and trying to will memories to the surface were costing Belle her sanity and life. Belle resolved to let it go and be thankful for what she had. She threw herself into work, building a design business that was finally coming into its own. Sure, there were those days when the questions would creep back into her consciousness, but she resolutely shut them back out. It clearly was a losing battle.

Now this.

Against better judgment, Belle cancelled her plans with her mother—making up a needy-client emergency—and jumped into her car for the long drive out of town. The mile markers streamed by unnoticed while Belle’s mind raced with the possibilities of what she could find. But the abandoned house and childhood toys were not what she expected. And Belle was further alarmed by the mystery caller on her cousin’s phone. She could not make the connections. With her heart beating like a drum she bent down to pick up the dolls. She gingerly inspected them, wondering what she was looking for. The blue beaded eyes looked vaguely familiar as did the faded calico dresses. But was it all from a dream, or some memory desperately trying to make it to the surface? Turning the dolls over, she saw a link to the girl twenty years before. The name “Jessie” was scrawled in permanent ink on the dolls’ plush bodies.

-Angela

Chapter 3

"What?" Belle felt enveloped in a fog of confusion and she tried to clear her head. "And just where do you think I'm supposed to be?" she asked as irritation crept into her voice. She hadn't discussed her plans with anyone, especially not with Taylor. Her annoying cousin would have blabbed the information all over the place, alerting her mother who would feel deceived, and then he would tell her a better way to go about searching for her past. If it wasn't for the fact that he was an expert with computers and her own was old and temperamental, she would delete his number right out of her cell phone.

"The green house. Are you there yet?"

Belle's head snapped toward the neglected house in front of her. "Who is this?" she asked as her mind seemed to clear and had her on alert. "Who are you?"

"Who do you think it is?"

It wasn't Taylor, Belle knew that for sure. The voice, the mannerisms, the way he wasn't rushing through his words and ignoring hers, was evidence enough. "Where's Taylor?"

"Who?"

"Taylor. You're using his phone. Where is he?" she demanded.

"He must have lost his phone."

Panic began to take hold of her. Not only had she rushed out and followed the clues on an anonymous e-mail, but had somehow managed to get Taylor involved too. How, she didn't know. "Where's Taylor?" she asked again. "What have you done to him?" As much as he annoyed her, Belle had no desire to see any harm come to Taylor. Besides, his involvement, whatever it might be, would only complicate matters.

"I told you, I found the phone. What do you think of the house? Have you gone inside?"

Belle stared at the huge lock on the front door and wondered how she'd go inside even if she wanted to. And right now, she didn't want to. She wanted to crawl back into her car, drive far away from there, and drop the entire search. "Who are you?" she repeated firmly.

"A friend. An old friend of the family."

"What is your interest in me?"

"I'm trying to help you."

"Why?"

"You deserve to know the truth."

"What is the truth?" Belle asked in a tentative voice.

"I can't tell you. This is your search."

"This is nonsense," Belle said as a semblance of common sense took hold of her. "You send me an e-mail, you call on my cousin's phone, and refuse to identify yourself. You're up to no good and I'm disconnecting the call."

"Look on the porch steps, and good luck."

The phone suddenly went dead. Again, Belle stared at the pitiful sight in front of her and wondered if she dared to take a few steps forward, just enough to see if there indeed was something to be seen on the sagging porch. She quickly glanced around her to see if she was alone. She didn't feel alone, but as she looked and listened, she could hear nothing but the occasional wind gust.

Slipping the phone back in her bag and pulling out her keys, Belle stepped around the car and craned her neck. On the lower step of the porch she saw two shapes that she couldn't make out. She took another step forward, and then another. She gasped. She didn't know what these images had to do with her past, but in their present neglected and forgotten state, they looked as if they belonged on the steps of the weathered house.

Belle continued to stare as her mind tried to solve the riddle. What did faded ribbons, and chewed limbs, and a missing arm, and torn clothing on two discarded dolls have to do with Belle's life?

Chapter 2

Belle turned away from the house. Feeling foolish and angry, she just wanted to jump back in her car and speed down the road back to her normal life. She was blessed and mostly happy by anyone’s observation, why did she have to go on this fruitless paper chase? Believing an anonymous email seemed so preposterous now. No one had ever been willing to help Belle find her roots—why would someone now have an interest? But, really, it was the desire to know the truth that motivated her to follow any lead, no matter how ridiculous it seemed. Unfortunately, the house was just another roadside relic, unknown to her and her secrets. Another dead end.

The wind picked up as Belle reached for the car handle. Her loose brown hair blew in front of her face, obscuring her vision, just as the passing current lifted the screen door on the side porch. The door swung slowly on its hinges then snapped back to its frame. Belle’s hand relaxed and then fell at her side. She felt woozy…disoriented…then she slipped away.

*****

“Good Heavens, child! How many times do I have to tell you to close the door softly? It just rattles my bones every time.” Uncle Rueben always said this when Jessie came in the house. She had heard it so frequently that it was just white noise to her.

“Well, you came in just in time. Supper is almost ready—I’ve tried a new recipe. And…” Long pause. “Your mother called. And…well, she is in town and will come get you tonight. So, get your hands washed—I want those nails super-shiny clean—and we’ll eat and pack your bag.” And with a twirl, Uncle Rueben returned to the oven to retrieve the roasted chicken he had prepared.

Jessie stood by the door stunned. But why? Wasn’t this the routine so far in her little life? Random houses and questionable motels had provided her shelter since she was born. The only mainstays were her sporadic visits with Uncle Rueben—and even with those, she never knew when her mom or some stranger would swoop in and take her away. Uncle Rueben’s house was the closest thing to home that Jessie knew. And even then things weren’t white-picket perfect.

The brother of Jessie’s mom Sylvia, Rueben was kind to accept these unexpected visits of undetermined length. While he provided some stability for Jessie, he could not give the time and attention the six-year old needed. Sure, there were the nutritious home-cooked meals and the room of her own; but Rueben was preoccupied and misguided. Instead of holding a steady job, he chased one get-rich-quick scheme after the other and spent any additional time and money on the home shopping channel—filling his dilapidated home with gaudy trinkets, jewelry, and clothes. The meager inheritance he had acquired fostered this lifestyle of mild extravagance, but the money couldn’t flow forever. He gave no thought for tomorrow—his top priority was satiating his own tacky tastes and securing his position of fairy godfather of gifts to his small circle of friends. Thankfully he had a passion for cooking and ensured Jessie’s stomach was filled. But meals were spent in front of the TV set with some blonde pitching the latest cubic-zirconian treasure.

But Jessie was accustomed to the loneliness. She spent her days at Uncle Rueben’s neglected house roaming the fields and poking around the overgrown garden in company with the bevy of cats Uncle Rueben kept. Just today she had made a little house under some unkempt bramble for the two dolls her uncle had bought her. It was quiet and calm and a world of her own design. Now, she was being snatched away yet again and had no idea where she would lay her head tonight.

Jessie’s stomach churned at the thought. And, it didn’t help that she was overcome with the pungent scent of If-You-Like-Giorgio-Then-You’ll-Love-Primo perfume as she entered the bathroom to wash her hands. Uncle Rueben practically bathed in it. And while it was nauseating at the moment, it seemed to smell like home.

*****

Belle’s slumped body jolted upright as her cell phone rang. She scrambled to find it in her bag. Finally, with the phone in her hand, she turned it over to see that it was Taylor. “Hey,” she barely found the strength to answer.

“So are you there yet?”

-Angela