“She keeps saying she’s twelve,” the nurse told Lana. “We thought it was trauma, until she gave us her name.” The nurse handed over a clipboard: Nora Kelly, one of the missing children.
When Lana entered the hospital room, the woman sat up slowly. Her hair was tangled, her face pale, but the green eyes were unmistakable. “You got old,” Nora whispered, tears sliding down her cheeks.
“You remember me?” Lana asked, her voice trembling.
Nora nodded. “You had chickenpox. You were supposed to come too.”
Lana sat beside her, stunned. “They told me no one would remember,” Nora whispered. “That no one would come.”
“Who told you that?” Lana asked gently.
