Maybe they were right.
Cara stood on my porch, one hand wrapped around the railing.
Then, thirteen years after we met, my doorbell rang at seven on a rainy Thursday.
I opened the door and felt the air catch in my throat.
Cara stood on my porch, one hand wrapped around the railing. She was thin, pale, and shaking, but I still knew her eyes immediately.
« Hi, » she said.
I should have demanded answers.
I stared at her.
« Where have you been? »
Her mouth trembled.