She was seven, barefoot inside torn sneakers, and so hungry the pain had gone quiet. Ava Grayson had learned the safest way to survive was to be invisible—another kid no one asked about, no one reported missing, no one remembered.
For three days, a blizzard had screamed across the mountains around Cedar Hollow, burying roads and erasing footprints like the world wanted to forget she existed. Ava and her old German Shepherd, Duke, sheltered in an abandoned school bus behind the railroad yards. Duke’s ribs showed through his fur. Ava’s jacket was three sizes too big, pinned together with safety pins and hope.
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