Prelude

My dear Holl,

They came to visit you before you were born though we didn't know it at the time, of course. The Small were tiny enough to creep through the mail slot and past the cat (who saw but didn't say anything) and the dog (who snored probably and chased rabbits in his sleep).

They tiptoed across the floor and up the stairs into our bedroom where you lay sleeping in your crib. The moon shone brightly that night, but our curtains were drawn. When you have a very young child you do your best to make good sleep conditions in hopes for four or even five straight hours of sleep at a time. One of them maneuvered a small flashlight to shine through the crib slats onto your face. You stirred and I stirred, so they switched off the light.

But the light had revealed one thing: you were just a normal little baby asleep with a curled fist shoved up by your chin, a line of drool tracing its way across your cheek. Watching a tiny baby sleep, it's hard to imagine that one day it will become a walking, talking, bold little girl. Like you, my Holl.

Our living room walls are full of art prints from comic books. Heroes battle in the pictures, crushing evildoers underfoot. We love a good hero. Or used to. We've been told that you will save them from something great and hulking and terrible. Our little Holl - dress up enthusiast, BMX trickster, hero.

The Small's confidence in you is massive. And it crushes us, your parents. We suddenly know that the parents of heroes often wish their children were small and unimportant and capable only of saving their parents from worrying.

Holl, please come home safe to us. Wherever you are.