I saw her before the engine even finished rumbling to a stop. Someone was kneeling in the mud near the mailbox. The figure was hunched, clothing plastered to their body, hair stuck to their cheeks. At first, through the rain and darkness, I thought a neighbor’s dog had gotten loose and someone was restraining it. Then the figure lifted its head just enough for the porch light to graze the profile.

It was my daughter Talia.

I tore the car door open and sprinted, my shoes sinking into the waterlogged lawn. Cold rain hammered my head and coat. When I reached her, I could barely breathe.