“So what is your name, anyway?”

Besides her there is a shifting, and she quickly glances at the miserable wretch that now occupies her passenger seat before turning her attention back to the rain-slicked road. A runaway, by appearance, brown eyes, brown hair, clothes soaked through and lips turning blue from the cold. One thin arm protrudes from the picnic blanket thrown hastily around her shoulders. A gift from Tommy; never used.

The girl wipes at one eye with the heal of her hand, the moon above peaking out from behind dark clouds briefly.

The child answers, one word. “Hope.”