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My mother always told me that if anyone ever came to the house to find my father, to shut the door and run. So when a strange man wearing a trench coat rang the doorbell and asked if Mr. Dale Crawford was home, I shut the door, grabbed my little brother Tommy, a bag of supplies, and ran out the back door into the streets of London.

I flew through the narrow London streets, turning the corners every so often in case the man was following me. I passed the pub where my father spent most weekend afternoons, I passed my elementary school. I ran and ran and ran, my only thought was to keep Tommy safe. I ran until I hit a densely forested patch of land. I stopped and laid my now sleeping brother down on the soft, mossy ground, and sighed. I heard a branch crack behind me, and my heart stopped. I turned around, and there he was. The man in the trench coat. Dark brown hair, piercing blue eyes, pale skin. His thin lips turned up into a smile. My face paled as the man said,

“Little girl, where is your father?”