(An hour earlier)
*
Willa dangled her legs off the edge of the sofa, humming to herself as she swung them back and forth. Her small pink backpack lay beside her; she always carried it, even inside the house, because she liked knowing her crayons were close by.
Adults, she decided, were very strange creatures.
She puffed her cheeks and pouted. Holding her stuffed animals she talked to the one that looked like a fox.
“Why are grown-ups always so busy…? And serious.” She frowned at nothing in particular. “Do they not like smiling? Toys?”
She stared at her father’s contact on her tiny kids’ phone. She pressed call.
It rang once.
Twice.
Then, his voice message played, brisk and tired in the way he always sounded lately.
“Busy. Leave a message.”
Willa blinked.
