Chapter 1: The Backpack She Was Afraid to Lose
My eight-year-old daughter was crying so hard that she could barely breathe, and my wife was more concerned about her backpack than the possibility that our little girl was seriously ill.
Maya lay curled on the living room floor, both arms wrapped around her stomach.
“Daddy, please make it stop,” she whimpered.
I dropped to my knees beside her.
Her face was pale, her forehead damp with sweat, and her fingers dug into the fabric of her shirt as another wave of pain rolled through her.
“Maya, sweetheart, where does it hurt?””
She pointed weakly toward her stomach.
“My tummy.””
I reached for my phone, already thinking about the fastest route to the nearest emergency room.
Behind me, Claire sighed.
“She's fine, Daniel. She's probably trying to get out of school tomorrow.””
I turned toward my wife.
Claire was sitting on the couch, scrolling through her phone with one leg crossed over the other.
She didn't even look at our daughter.
“She's in agony,” I said.
“Kids exaggerate.””
“Maya can barely stand.””
“Then give her something for the pain and let her sleep.””
I stared at Claire, waiting for some sign that she was worried.
A flicker of concern.
A question.
Anything.
Instead, she tapped something on her screen and smiled faintly at whatever she was reading.
I had been married to Claire for six years.
I knew her moods, her habits, and the particular way she twisted a strand of hair around her finger when she was impatient.
But as I looked at her that afternoon, I felt something unfamiliar settle in my chest.
Doubt.
Not about Maya.
About my wife.
“I'm taking her to the hospital,” I announced.
Claire's head snapped up.
“What?””
“You heard me.””
“Daniel, you're overreacting.””
“Then the doctor can tell me that.””
I slid one arm beneath Maya's knees and the other behind her back.
She was so small in my arms.
Too small to be hurting like this.
As I carried her toward the front door, I noticed her bright red backpack sitting beside the hallway table.
It was the same backpack she took to school every day, decorated with a faded cartoon cat and a tiny keychain shaped like a strawberry.
Maya suddenly reached for it.
“Daddy, my bag.””
I shifted her weight carefully.
“You want to bring it?””
She nodded frantically.
“Please.””
I picked it up with my free hand.
The moment Claire saw me take the backpack, her expression changed.
It was subtle.
So subtle that I might have missed it if I hadn't already been watching her.
Her fingers tightened around her phone.
Then she stood.
“Why does she need that thing at the hospital?””
Maya buried her face against my shoulder.
“It's mine,” she whispered.
“I know, sweetheart.””
Claire stepped toward us.
“Give it to me. I'll put it away.””
Maya's entire body stiffened.
“No!””
The scream was so sudden that I nearly dropped the bag.
Claire stopped.
Maya clutched my shirt, shaking.
“Don't let Mommy take it.””
For a moment, nobody moved.
Then Claire laughed.
It was a short, brittle sound that didn't reach her eyes.
“Oh, for heaven's sake. She's sick and confused.””
I looked down at my daughter.
Her eyes were wide with terror.
Not the ordinary fear of a child who didn't want someone touching her favorite toy.
This was different.
Maya looked at Claire as though the woman standing in our hallway had become a stranger.
“Sweetheart,” I whispered, “why don't you want Mommy to touch your backpack?””
Maya opened her mouth.
Then she looked at Claire.
Whatever answer she had been about to give disappeared.
“Nothing,” she murmured.
Claire seized the opportunity.
“See? Nothing. Give me the bag, Daniel.””
I tightened my grip on it.
“No.””
Her eyebrows rose.
“What did you say?””
“I said no. I'm taking Maya to the hospital, and her backpack is coming with us.””
For the first time since Maya had started crying, Claire looked genuinely frightened.
Not annoyed.
Not impatient.
Frightened.
“Daniel, don't be ridiculous.””
I opened the front door.
“Get in the car if you're coming.””
Claire stood motionless for two seconds.
Then she grabbed her purse and hurried after us.
During the drive, Maya lay across the back seat with her head in my lap whenever I could safely reach her at a stoplight.
The backpack rested beside her.
Every few minutes, Claire twisted around from the passenger seat to stare at it.
She tried to make her movements look casual.
She asked whether Maya had eaten anything unusual.
She asked when the pain had started.
Then, without warning, she asked, “Daniel, did you open that backpack?””
I glanced at her.
“No. Why?””
She turned toward the windshield.
“No reason.””
Her voice was too quick.
Too rehearsed.
I looked in the rearview mirror.
Maya's eyes were open.
She was staring at Claire.
And when my wife turned away, our daughter silently mouthed four words.
Please don't let her.
I didn't understand what Maya was trying to tell me.
Not yet.
But I knew one thing.
May you like
Whatever was inside that red backpack had terrified my daughter more than the pain twisting her stomach.
And my wife was desperate to get her hands on it.
