“Oh, she’s in the middle of a show, Sarah. Don’t be ridiculous. I’ll see you at 5:30.”

She hung up.

I stared at the black screen of my phone. I didn’t drive back to the billing office.

Instead, I drove straight down Route 4, my tires throwing up slush from the gravel shoulder.

The Sunoco sat on a lonely stretch of highway, surrounded by dead cornfields and gray Ohio winter sky. It was a run-down place with rusty pumps and a flickering neon sign.

I parked near the door, my heart pounding in my throat. I had passed this station every single evening on my way home from work, never once realizing my child was inside.

I walked through the door, and the little bell chimed. The store smelled of stale coffee, diesel fuel, and floor cleaner.

Behind the counter stood an older woman with silver-gray hair pulled back in a messy bun. She was wearing a faded red Sunoco apron over a thick gray sweatshirt. Her eyes were kind, but they looked incredibly tired.

On the counter sat a small wire rack of cheap three-dollar sandwiches.

“Can I help you?” she asked, her voice soft and gravelly.

I walked up to the counter. I pulled the purple plastic lunchbox out of my bag and set it on the laminate surface. It was the purple lunchbox I packed for Emma every single morning at 6:00 AM. I always put a ham sandwich, an apple, and a juice box inside.

“Do you know who owns this?” I asked, my voice trembling.

The woman’s eyes fixed on the purple plastic. Her expression changed instantly. The professional smile vanished, replaced by a deep, aching pity.

“Are you Emma’s mom?” she asked quietly.

I nodded. I couldn’t speak. My throat felt completely blocked.

She reached under the counter, past the rolls of lottery tickets and the register tape.

She pulled out a blue spiral notebook with a yellow puppy sticker on the front. The edges of the cover were frayed and worn.

“My name is Maeve,” she said, sliding the notebook toward me. “I’ve been waiting for you to come in. I didn’t want to call child services yet because I was afraid of what it would do to Emma. But I started keeping track. Just in case.”

I opened the cover. The first page was dated October 14.

“Child arrived at 3:22 PM,” the entry read in neat, blue ink. “No coat. Temperature is 42 degrees outside. She was sitting on the concrete curb behind the ice machine. Said her grandmother’s car wasn’t in the driveway and the house was locked. Brought her inside. Gave her half of my turkey sandwich and a cup of warm water.”

I felt sick to my stomach. My vision blurred as I turned the pages.

There were 47 entries.