DRAVEN
"Why are you crying, Leigh?"
She laughed bitterly, the kind that comes out when something is too painful to answer straight. Her fingers kept moving, needles clicking in a slow steady rhythm, grey wool pulling through her hands like she'd done this a thousand times before.
"I'm making a hat," she said simply. I looked at the small thing taking shape between her fingers. Too tiny for an adult. Rounded at the top, barely the size of my fist. Something about the size of it sat wrong in my chest.
"For who?"
"My daughter."
I didn't say anything for a second.
She had a daughter.
I turned that over slowly, trying to place it, trying to build the picture. A daughter meant a father somewhere. A father meant she belonged to someone — or had, once. So where the hell was he? What kind o
