Chapter Text
A crash sounds dully and painfully across the darkened parking garage. That’s not necessarily unusual, in and of itself. Strange has lived in New York his entire adult life and often finishes work at odd times of night.
As such, he knows when to mind his business, cast his eyes down, and stride speedily to his car. Had it been just the thud or clatter, Stephen would have taken, perhaps, a quick glance in the direction before moving on.
However, it's the shrill, desperate cry that so instinctually alerts him:
a child’s cry.
It makes him freeze, muscles tensing and heartbeat rapidly increasing.
He hears his own footsteps echo across the concrete surface of the late-night lot as if some other entity possesses him. He’s pulled towards the sound without comprehending that he’s getting any closer.
His mind races with possibilities, but really the forefront of his thoughts are flashes of the last time he heard such calls.
The last time his instincts took over his body, sending him speeding toward the source.
Some part of him wonders if it’s some hallucination from unresolved PTSD. Maybe he’ll round the corner to find her there— then no one at all.
He swallows down the unbidden fear as he freezes behind the car closest to the cries. Carefully, he inches to peer over it.
Any relief that he isn’t actually crazy is quickly dashed with the realization that it’s horribly real.
There, in the middle of an empty parking spot, lies a small girl— perhaps eight or nine— sobbing hysterically into her knees.
He’s not fond of children, nor is he one to unfoundedly hate and blame them for all his problems like some. He’s just not good with them. Children are bright and free and so unashamedly emotional, and perhaps he thinks his jadedness would ruin them.
At the moment, though, none of that really matters.
No matter how, admittedly, incapable he may be, a child lies not 10 feet away, and something is wrong .
He picks up the pace to assess the unsettling scene closer, walking out in front of the space so she may see him before he goes to her.
She’s curling around herself for an imitation of comfort, arms twistedly reaching up over her head and pulling at her hair. Her dark brown curls spill onto the asphalt around her while her shoulders and chest jerk irregularly from trying to catch her breath between bawls. He almost makes it to her side when she tilts her head to the side for just a second, maybe in subconscious fear of being approached, and–
She has dark brown eyes.
They’re teary and irritated and terrified.
And Stephen is fifteen again.
His legs lock and his breath is gone. All he can do is stare at the little girl crying out for help. A little girl with brown hair and brown eyes that are red and watery, whose voice is raw and piercing from screaming.
Someone who looks up at him with some sort of desperate hope and, therefore, illogical trust, even though he deserves none of it. Someone who needs him, and he can’t move . It’s cold and silent except for the girl, and he feels like the ice is getting to him all over again.
Her arms flail, and all she wants is for her big brother to come save her from the frigid water.
He tries.
He tried. He did.
He ran as fast as he could— she was just so far.
Little choking sobs ring out in the vivid flashback.
She had only been able to cry for so long before she went horrifically silent.
Still breathing.
It's enough of a difference to pull him out of the memory, as barely-there warmth returns to his fingers.
This little girl was still alive.
She isn’t going anywhere.
There is no ravenous water pulling her down and away.
She’s right there.
This time, he is right there next to her.
She is scared and cold and alive.
She’s fine, just help .
So this time, Stephen squats down right beside the girl and tries to save her properly.
“Hey- hey, kid, look at me,” he keeps his voice level and smooth, finally catching air again. She tries to tilt her head up to look at him, but, even when crouched, Stephen is tall while she remains hunched, lying on the floor. She squints through tears and hiccups. “I need to know if you’re physically hurt. Are you in pain?”
She expels a few more sharp puffs of air, crying so hard she’s almost gagging, before she can begin to stumble through an answer.
“I- I think I,” a few more sobs and whines escape, “scraped m- mmm- my- my arms. Legs. F- fell.”
Minutely, Stephen relaxes at the trivial injuries. He tries not to look too relieved. Obviously, she’s still very upset, no point in dismissing her pain.
Her voice is rough but strong enough to be heard over the tears, as if she knows she has to. It’s easier to communicate with her than he expected to be able to with a child so distraught. Maybe she has some of those parents who train their children for emergencies like these.
He takes note that she has a mildly heavy Puerto Rican accent, but not one too dissimilar to others in New York. It’s likely she, somehow, just got lost and fell while frantically searching for her parents. There’s no one else around now, but he should check if Nurse Morales is working tonight; maybe she’d feel more comfortable with her. She’s one of the few Strange trusts to be competent– though he often trusts nurses more than doctors anyway. She’s motherly, Spanish-speaking, and physically less intimidating than a six-foot man with a mean face.
Regardless, he tries to move on to the next line of questioning.
“What happened, kid?” He tries to ask it kindly, shoving all the sympathy he’s capable of in the words.
A new wave of ugly sobbing begins again.
“ ¡Mis mamás! ¡Que se han ido! ”
Shit. Ok, well, scrapes first.
“Ok- ok. It’s ok, kid. I’m sorry, but we need to take care of your scratches first,” he’s panicking a bit, trying to be soothing in ways he’s not really capable of. Stephen inches closer to her, “Is it alright if I help you up or-”
Before he can finish the question, small hands are reaching out for his arm and cling to him harshly. It might be because she needs a hug more than she needs medical attention, but he takes it as permission to pick her up anyway.
He leans down further slowly, gently positioning his arms under hers and around her waist without grabbing, allowing her to hold on first. He’s not quite sure it’s the right thing to do. His arms feel long and awkward hovering in air, but she does grab on. The child stretches her arms and wraps them around his neck before shoving her tear-ridden face into the crook. He takes the opportunity to, carefully, lift the light body further up and secure her in his arms. He checks to make sure she’s stable and safe before attempting to get up. Stephen groans while standing up, the little extra weight on his chest throwing off his center of gravity. Subconsciously, he rubs soothing circles into the girl's back.
When he makes it back inside the hospital, he heads straight for the nearest first aid.
Usually, he’d take “regular” patients straight to whatever doctor or nurse he could pawn them off on, but this time is different. Yes, he could argue that she’s clingy and scared, but, really, Stephen has always been a selfish man at heart.
Part of him just wants to make up for the last little girl he couldn’t help. In some way, maybe he’s wishing this little act he’s putting on will wash away all the shame he feels from not being the kind of doctor Donna wished he would become. For two minutes, he can be the doctor that cures random, crying little girls’ ouchies with scooby-doo band-aids and lollipops.
He sets her down on a hallway chair and encourages her to relax her hold. She’s still crying, but the body-wracking bawling has slowly transformed into tired sobs and sniffling on the walk over. If she flinches, it’s hidden in her irregular breathing. Still, Stephen tries to clean her wounds as gently as he can, wiping bright red off her tan legs and arms as he is crouched beside the chair.
“Strange?”
His head whips around to the familiar voice.
“Wh- I thought you left already. Who is this?” Christine stands above him, baffled.
Which, seeing your co-worker with a god complex kneeling before a small, unknown girl while he speaks softly and bandages her scraped knees might do that to someone.
“I-” he fumbles for a moment. Strange clears his throat before talking again in a much more confident tone. “I don’t know. She fell in the parking lot when I was leaving. She was alone. It’s entirely empty out there, so I brought her inside.”
Christine’s judgemental gaze flitters between him and the child. Eventually, it settles on the younger, and she tries offering a strained smile.
“Ok…” she discreetly looks her up and down. “What’s your name, sweetie? Everything ok?” The doctor keeps her tone sugary and polite.
The girl’s hand, which had grasped his arm again at some point, squeezed uncomfortably.
“Knowing your name could help us find your mothers, right? We can’t do that just yet, not without calling some people first, but maybe it would make you a bit more comfortable?” he reasons with her.
She stays silent, searching his face for authenticity. Meanwhile, Christine, no doubt, does the same behind him.
“My name’s Stephen. Doctor Stephen Strange.”
She lets out the tiniest puff of air, like a whisper of a laugh. She doesn’t smile, but the corners of her mouth lift enough that she doesn’t frown.
He smirks and lifts a brow, “Funny, huh?”
Now she smiles, barely there and fragile but a smile.
“America…” The sound is hoarse. “Chavez,” she adds as an afterthought.
“Alright, Miss Chavez, my friend Dr. Palmer and I are going to look after you while we try to find your parents. Is that ok, or would you be more comfortable with someone else?”
America glances around the hospital with a strange amount of unfamiliarity. It was as if the white walls had transported her into an entirely new world, not just a new building. Then again, perhaps a girl this young had never had a reason to be in a hospital before, so all the same. She turns her focus back on him, that irrational trust returning.
“It’s ok… I wanna stay with you.” she whispers.
Stephen tries to not act surprised despite the baffling idea that a child would choose him of all people to be around in a time like this. He just accepts the answer and continues to bandage her wounds. He and Christine whisper plans back to each other– who to go to, who to call. Eventually, she leaves to contact a supervisor while he remains by Miss Chavez.
It’s ages later when Strange can sit back down, rubbing temples to banish the headache brought on by sleep deprivation and frustration. The shift before finding America had already been long and tiring. Then, he had to stand with police and a crying child who stuck to his legs and could not remember a single detail about how she arrived at the hospital.
As a doctor, he had pointed out that she had neither signs of head injury nor intoxication, making memory loss highly irregular. In a last-ditch effort, he even asked for the officers to look at the security footage in the parking garage, but, of course, the corner she had been tucked behind was one of the few blind spots in the cameras.
He sighed heavily. They thought she was lying. However, he couldn’t begin to fathom why a child so afraid and alone, who had cried like that for her mothers, would suddenly hide information to stop them from reuniting.
Chavez peeks from the office she was being talked to in, a cup of water in her hands. She only hesitates for a moment before walking out and offering it to Stephen. He accepts with mumbled thanks. She then leans into him, clearly searching for rest and comfort. Soon, an officer follows her out.
“Mister Strange-”
“ Doctor ,” he corrects weakly.
“Right. Listen, we can’t find anything on this kid, and we’re not going to get anything substantial for now. The best thing to do is for you both to get some rest. We’ll find her a place she can stay, and you can head home, doctor.”
Stephen startles. Right, he forgot she would need a place to stay while the investigation went on. America would probably stay in an orphanage or a foster home. America , who was so wary of strangers and looked at every new street corner like the boogeyman would pop out, would have to stay in a place surrounded by unknown adults who may or may not care for her at all.
“...Dr. Palmer and I are going to look after you while we try to find your parents.”
He didn’t really think about it when he said it.
It was true enough, he and Christine were doctors and decent adults– of course they would look after a lost child while she was looking for her family. It’s not like he expected that to take more than a phone call.
But… the words sound an awful lot like a promise. He hates people who go back on their word. Stephen sighs.
God, he can’t believe he’s about to do this.
“Would it be all right if she stays with me for the time being?”
The officer seems taken by surprise. He remains silent while thinking it over.
“...it’s been a long night for everyone. She seems comfortable with you, but let me wake her up and ask.”
Stephen nods and carefully maneuvers himself so the girl doesn’t fall over while he goes to jostle her awake. The officer crouches down to speak to her as she is woken up.
“Hi, honey,” he begins kindly. She hums in acknowledgment, tired but aware. “I know you're tired, and I think we’re done here for tonight. I just need to ask one more question. Would you want to stay with Doctor Strange tonight? If not, we have plenty of other places you can stay with lots of people to take care of you.”
America shakes her head loosely against Stephens’s arm.
“Wanna go with Dr. Strange…”
The policeman nods his head, then stands back up to address Strange.
“You have everything you need for that? Guest bedroom? PJs? Though, probably not the biggest deal right now.”
Stephen glanced down at America’s dirt-covered blue t-shirt with the once-white star being marred with scrapes and her shorts that had the same treatment. He has some old shirts she could wear to bed, and he remembered when his dad would do the same for him when he was young and sick.
It would have to do, for now; both were much too tired for a different solution tonight. He and Christine had already informed their boss about getting wrapped up in the investigation, so he was free to leave when it was done.
She gave up and turned in slightly earlier than Strange, being much more trusting and less stubborn than him. Thankfully, he had already had tomorrow off nor was he on call– the enforced respite for the workaholic doctor.
“I think she’ll be ok. Could I possibly get a ride back to my apartment, though? Between this and the shift earlier, I don’t trust myself to drive.”
The man agrees, letting Stephen pick up the girl before leading them to a car. It’s only a short time until he drops them off in front of his apartment building. Strange thanks him stiffly.
“We’ll call you if we find anything or need you to bring her in, alright?” the officer calls out the window. Strange acknowledges him, agreeing to watch out for the phone call before they both swiftly say goodnight. Then, he proceeds to carry America in, through the doors, up the elevator, and struggles with his keys until, finally, he’s home.
He places her onto a sofa chair in his living room, one she snuggles into immediately. Quickly and quietly, he goes to his room to change.
While there, he grabs an old t-shirt and some sweatpants with a drawstring he’s hoping pulls small enough for America to wear and roll up the legs if she wants. He brings them back to the sofa.
“America,” he whispers. She stirs, a small fist coming to rub her eye. She whines a bit. “I know,” he tries to soothe, “but we need to get you out of dirty clothes. I can show you the bathroom to put these on.” She eyes the clothing judgmentally. He huffs. “It’s all I have alright? We can go shopping for cute, clean clothes later.”
Eventually, she nods and reaches out to be picked up once again.
Far too weak for brown eyes, he does carry her to the bathroom. He sets her down and hands her the oversized pajamas. Closing the door for her privacy, he waits.
When she’s done, America opens the door to show herself in the shirt, which comes to her knees, and sweatpants that pool on the floor.
Stephen covertly chuckles before kneeling down to roll the sweats until her foot can be seen again. Then, he stands and leads her to his bedroom door.
“I want you to sleep in there tonight, ok? I’ll be right out here on the couch if you need me, but, right now, we both need to get some rest.”
America nods sadly, letting go of his hand. She trudges to his bed, having to hop a bit to climb on, and steals a pillow to hold while digging herself under the covers. Stephen walks to where she lay, taking a pillow for himself, too. He busies himself with tucking her in.
“Goodnight, Miss Chavez,” he says under his breath.
“‘Night, Stephen,” she responds.
With that, he returns to the couch and makes sure he can see her through the open door before he can finally let himself sleep.
The next morning, Stephen wakes up tired and aching way too late in the day. He forces himself up and to the kitchen, using what little ingredients he has for omelets. He plates the less burnt one for America and carries it toward his bedroom.
Knocking lightly on the door, he calls out.
“Miss Chavez?” He listens carefully to hear some groaning and shuffling. “Is it alright if I come in?”
“Mmmm,” the frustrated mumble is his only answer, but it sounds enough like a yes that he turns the door handle.
America has gathered every square inch of bedding and pulled it into a cocoon in the center. Tangled brown bedhead is the only visual reminder that there’s a living thing in the middle of the bunched comforter.
Stephen places the omelet on his nightstand.
“Miss Chavez,” he whispers, “I know you’re tired, but it’s time to get up. You need to eat.”
A sleepy brown eye pops out from out of the covers.
“What’d you make…”
“Unfortunately, just an omelet. If you want, we can get something else when we go shopping today.” The girl pouts, bushy eyebrows knitting dramatically. “I know, not my favorite activity, either, but you need clothes and other things.”
She sighs, pushing herself to sit up and rub at her eyes.
“Food?” she asks.
He passes her the plate.
“I washed your clothes, too. So, when you’re ready, you can get dressed in those.”
She splits bits and pieces off the egg to eat, clearly not savoring the little flavor but hungry enough to eat it all.
When they both finish eating and dressing, Doctor Strange leads them to the elevator and back down for their expedition. In one hand, he holds the little girl’s smaller palm carefully and, in the other, a list of various groceries, clothing, and other supplies.
After much deliberation the night before, Stephen decided to walk to the hospital first so they could drive his car.
Usually, despite being spoiled by having a car, he often walks for his errands like any other New Yorker. Traffic is all too common for the nearby stores, and, for a case like this, walking all the way to his car in the hospital parking lot to only take longer to get to where he needs is too much effort.
However, much agonizing considered this one situation worthy of the walk and traffic. There are just too many people in this city. The worst-case scenario– America getting separated and being alone and lost again– is far too possible in one of the most populated cities in the world.
So, they walk to the parking garage where his car is, and every time anyone walks a little too close or fast, Stephen pulls her a little closer to his side.
They finally make it to the car, and Stephen buckles her carefully in the back before making a note to cross “booster seat” off the list– she’s eight and tall enough for the seatbelt to reach her shoulder. He climbs into the driver’s side to buckle himself as well as check his mirrors.
“Your car is nice…” she speaks quietly from the back seat.
“Thank you.” he pauses while he starts the car. It’s a long shot whether it will upset or comfort her. “...Did your mothers have a nice car?”
She smiles only a little sadly.
“Mami likes old cars. She likes making the junky ones all pretty.”
Stephen laughs a little and starts pulling out of the parking space.
“Oh? Is she good at it?”
She smiles even wider.
“The best.”
“I’m jealous. I’m sure she has quite the collection.”
“I think she’s just trying to impress Mamá by fixing them. Mamá likes cars, too, but not so much the old ones.”
“Does it work?”
He flicks his gaze between the road and America’s face in the rearview mirror. She looks like she’s contemplating the question seriously.
“I think so… she always tells Mami she did a good job and kisses her cheek, but I think she’s just being silly and tells her what she wants to hear.”
He always forgets how observant kids are.
“Sometimes that’s just what you do for the people you love– play along even when you’re both being silly.”
She nods slowly, pondering the words.
She tells him about her mothers–their quirks and gifts. They seem like smart, loving women. Secretly, he tries to pick up on any information like where they’re from or how they might have gotten separated. He doesn’t ask any questions directly; surely, she was tired of those questions from the police last night. She doesn’t drop much information in the stories, anyway, but they’re nice anecdotes.
When they finally arrive at the store, he parks, pays, and helps America out of the seat. She shyly holds his hand in the store while he does basic grocery shopping first. He’s sure to ask for input on her favorites, grabbing things like mango, rice, pork, and individually packaged children’s snacks he wouldn’t usually get. He tries to balance healthy food with easy premade snacks she’ll like. He remembers when he and his siblings would eat themselves out of house and home, scouring for food anywhere. Whether they were the healthiest or not, little snacks America likes will give her the energy she needs throughout the day.
Eventually, they move on to clothes and other necessities like a toothbrush and bath products. He lets her guide most of it, picking out cute or comfy clothes with stars and butterflies and cool, themed products with dinosaurs or wrestlers.
While he’s developed expensive tastes for himself once in a while, Stephen’s midwestern farming background actually makes him pretty frugal most of the time.
This is one of the first times he’s been genuinely glad to have a little money to spend, just so America doesn’t have to worry about picking out what she wants. It won’t matter all that much to his normal budget, and she can get a few things to make herself comfortable.
At some point during all the shopping, America slows down. Her walking becomes trudging, dragging her feet as if they were traveling through mud. She keeps yawning and rubbing her eyes, and she leans against Stephen’s legs whenever they stop to look at anything. After enough nodding off, he finally picks her up. He holds her carefully with one arm as her weight lies mostly on his hip and tries to push their loaded cart with the free arm. He picks up a few more things including an air mattress as she snores lightly on his chest.
Should she stay longer, he might order a real bed frame and mattress for her. There’s an office in his apartment that he can easily move to the living room if she needs it.
For now, he tries not to think long-term. Eventually, the police will call back with her mothers found, and she’ll go home. Hopefully, it happens sooner than later, so, for now, he’ll sleep on an air mattress while she takes the bed. A few days won’t be that bad.
As he steers the heavy cart to checkout, he struggles to balance the girl in his arms and the many items that need to be placed on the conveyor. Thankfully, the college girl at the register takes pity on him and helps transfer the groceries.
He sighs heavily.
“Thank you for that.”
The young lady smiles at him.
“It’s no problem. You’re daughter’s really cute,” she points out while circling back to behind the register. “Can’t risk waking her, right?”
Stephen breathes in sharply, and all of his muscles recoil.
Daughter.
It makes sense. Of course anyone would assume the adult man shopping with a young girl whom he’s buying things for would be a father and his daughter.
He’s far past the suitable age for children.
They look nothing alike, but America could just take after her theoretical mother.
“Ah- She’s–” She readjusts her as she slips down. He’s suddenly stuck by the realization that he has no way to respond to that.
She’s not? She’s a lost child, but don't worry, I didn’t steal her. She’s just an eight-year-old I found and am taking care of until the police find her parents.
He clears his throat uncomfortably.
“Right. Thanks,” he swallows. He’s just agreeing so he doesn’t have to waste time explaining. That’s all.
She nods back sweetly and puts their groceries back in the cart.
When they get back to the car, he tucks America carefully into the backseat before loading the trunk. She snoozes against the seat until he goes to the front seat himself. Her lashes flutter open.
“Nap time over?” he teases.
She whines.
“Hungry…”
“Good thing we finished shopping.” He starts the car again. “Any preferences?”
She perks up immediately.
“Pizza?” she asks hopefully.
He chuckles at her mood change.
“Done,” he agrees.
He picks up a pizza from his favorite place and drives them back to his apartment, sure that America is done with adventure today.
They snack on the slices and organize groceries for the next hour or so. They neatly pile America’s things in the bathroom and fold her clothes in an extra drawer. The food seems to re-energize her. She’s back to bouncing around and giggling in no time.
It’s only when they’re cleaning up that he finally has the courage for another hard conversation with her.
“America…” he calls.
She looks up at him curiously from washing pizza grease off her hands.
“I… I need you to tell me what actually happened the night you got lost.”
She freezes. Her hands stop moving under the water, and her brown eyes glaze over in the slightest hint of fear.
He turns the water off and helps her dry her hands, careful not to startle her. Her eyes instinctually track his movements as he wipes the small hands on a towel, and he bends down to her level.
“I’m not mad. You’re not in any trouble,” he begins while still holding her palms. “I know you miss your moms.” Tears start bubbling to the front of her eyes. “I saw how upset you were, and I know you wouldn’t lie unless you felt like you had to.” She sniffles and her lip starts trembling. “What happened, America?”
A sob finally escapes from her poorly constructed prison. She stares at her new shoes, alligator tears dripping onto the floor.
“I’m sorry…” she whimpers.
He pulls her close and lets her cry into his shoulder, rubbing circles into the small back.
“You have nothing to apologize for,” he consoles. “I know it’s scary. I just want you to be able to tell someone. Anything can help find your parents.”
She only cries harder. It reminds him of when his little brother was still close to him. He gets images of Victor holding onto him in thunderstorms while Stephen’s reassurances did little to calm him.
It looks like he hasn’t gotten any better at it.
Time passes like this, America crying apologies into his shoulder as he crouches next to the kitchen sink. Stephen soothes and assures her to no end.
She sniffles and comes up for air.
“None of you would understand…” she whines pitifully.
“Try me,” he emplores.
Big, watery, brown eyes analyze him for his sincerity. When the assessment is made, her gaze flicks back down towards her feet.
“I didn’t mean to…” she whispers. Her hands come to cover her face and she squeezes her eyes closed tightly.
Stephen’s expression hardens with confusion.
“What?”
“I didn’t mean to!” she shouts louder. “I was just scared!”
“America it’s–”
“I don’t even know what I did! I don’t know why it opened!”
Her panic incites his own. His heartbeat runs faster as thoughts speed through ways to calm her down while simultaneously trying to solve what she could be talking about.
“What o–”
“I didn’t mean to!” she yells louder.
“America!”
He grabs her shoulders, and she gasps and jerks her gaze towards him again.
He freezes, too. He didn’t mean to raise his voice, and he immediately drops whatever expression he had. His confusion and concern may have come off angry, and he doesn’t want her to think that.
“America,” he repeats calmly, “what happened?”
Tears still drip consistently down her face.
“I know you didn’t mean for it to happen, but I need to know how you got separated.”
Her eyes shine, and her arms wrap around herself protectively.
“The portal. I didn’t mean to open it,” she sniffles.
The what?
It’s not the answer expected. For a moment, he’s even frustrated with her. It’s not the time to be playing around. He tried so hard to be genuine and serious with her. He tried to be open and reliable so she could talk to him comfortably. His face scrunches up, and he searches for the joke.
“Excuse me?”
The tears come down harder, and one of the hands that was tightly gripping her sides comes to pull at his sleeve.
“Please believe me,” she whispers.
The sincerity throws him off balance again. The exasperation drains from his body quickly as it came.
Suddenly, The Battle of New York comes to mind.
He always hated that name for it. The “battle”. As if an armada didn’t descend on a city with only about six viable people to protect against them. The ships. The aliens. The memories feel like an episode of The Twilight Zone to this day. The destruction after… The hospitals…
The portals.
He focuses on America again. She’s holding onto his arm tightly, and her expression shines earnestly.
“I do…” he whispers back. He doesn’t really know if he means it. Given the insanity of the claim and imagination children tend to have, he shouldn’t. But weirder things have happened still, and maybe he can give her the grace anyway. “What happened, ‘Mer?”
It’s the last time he has to ask.
She leans into him and cries softly through the story. She tells him how scared she was. She describes holding desperately onto her mother’s hand. She explains how violently the portal threw her from place to place until–
“Until you landed here…” he finishes for her.
“Yeah,” she sniffs.
At some point, she shifted enough to be held again. His head lies softly on her hair from listening while she spoke her story through tears.
It’s hard to grasp whether he’s seen weirder or not.
The eight-year-old he found in a parking lot is claiming to be a magical girl from another dimension.
The small girl in his arms can supposedly open portals.
“Ok,” he huffs. “I guess I should set you up for a little longer, huh?” She tilts her head up, confused. “Magic will probably take a little longer to figure out than searching a database, right?”
She goes slack in his arms. The idea of being away from her moms for even longer would do that.
“Right…”
“It’ll be ok,” he says. “We’ll figure it out.” He caresses her arms reassuringly. He doesn’t know where the confident voice comes from. He doesn’t know why he gives her the probably false hope.
“Really?” She’s so quiet that he can barely hear her.
“I think we’re both pretty smart,” he says lightly.
She smiles cautiously.
Her stomach interrupts by rumbling.
“I guess it is about dinner time, huh,” he chuckles. As he checks his watch, he can’t believe how long it’s been. “What do you want?”
She contemplates and sniffles seriously.
“Pizza.”
He looks down at her, ready to judge, but her face is tear-stained and tired. He really shouldn’t be feeding her the same of anything twice in one day, especially a greasy comfort food like pizza. But…the conversation was long and hard, and she did such a brave thing by telling him her story.
He sighs harshly.
“Don’t expect this to be a reoccurring thing…”
It’s the first time he’s seen her smile so brightly.