We collected everything she had brought: two blankets from our couch, a pile of scarves, the grocery bag with the sandwiches carefully labeled “Veggie” and “Chicken.” My car keys sat on top like an official offering. Back inside, I tucked her into bed without scolding, promising we’d listen for hooves on the roof. She fell asleep almost immediately, satisfied, like someone who had completed an important task.
In the morning, she ran into the living room and stopped short. An envelope sat among the gifts. She opened it slowly, reverently.
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