But the closer I got, the more details I saw.

The blanket was stained, the fabric worn out in places. Bare feet peeked out from underneath, scraped and raw. Mud streaked skinny ankles. Tangled hair clung to a face striped with dirt and dried tears.

And the eyes—those eyes—looked up at me.

I knew those eyes.

I had seen them the first time I held her, blinking up at me through scrunched lids. I had seen them light up when she scored a winning goal in middle school soccer, when she opened her acceptance letter to the art program she wanted, when she ran down the stairs on Christmas morning in fuzzy socks.

I would have recognized them in any country, in any life.

“Chloe?” I breathed.