He was a broken, tired man who simply wanted peace in his house, even if it meant turning a blind eye to the quiet cruelty happening right in front of him. By the time October of 1894 rolled around, crops had been poor, and the logging company had cut my father’s wages.

Money was impossibly tight. Bernarda’s resentment toward us turned into open hostility. We were extra mouths to feed, and she made sure we knew it every single day. I just never thought she would actually try to get rid of us. Standing on that porch, with the frost settling over the grass and the terrifying expanse of the dark woods staring back at us, I knew we wouldn’t survive the morning if we stayed there.

Violeta’s coughing was getting worse, a wet, heavy sound that shook her tiny frame. I tightened my grip on her, turned my back on the only home I knew, and took my first step into the pitch-black tree line. I decided to head toward the old trading road.

It was about two miles through dense timber, but I knew that logging wagons sometimes passed through there at dawn. If we could just reach the road, someone might find us. The woods were a nightmare. Every step was a battle against the terrain and the biting cold.

The damp underbrush soaked through my thin boots instantly, turning my toes completely numb. Briars tore at my exposed ankles, and the low-hanging pine branches scratched my face in the dark. I kept whispering to Violeta, trying to soothe her, but she had gone terrifyingly quiet.

The shivering had stopped, which my mother had once warned me was a sign that the cold was winning. Panic set in. My arms ached from carrying her dead weight, and tears streamed down my freezing cheeks.

We had been walking for what felt like hours, but the sky was still stubbornly dark.

I realized, with a sickening drop in my stomach, that I had lost the trail. The trees looked the same in every direction. We were walking in circles. My legs finally gave out. I collapsed at the base of a massive oak tree, curling my body entirely around Violeta to try and transfer whatever body heat I had left into her small chest.

I closed my eyes, exhausted and defeated. I thought about my father waking up, finding our beds empty, and wondered if he would even bother to look for us. I accepted that this was where we were going to die. But then, I smelled it.

It wasn’t the scent of pine or damp earth. It was woodsmoke. Fresh, burning woodsmoke. I opened my eyes and looked through the dense thicket to my right. About fifty yards away, barely visible through the morning mist, was a soft, orange glow. Adrenaline surged through my exhausted body.

I forced myself to my feet, hoisting Violeta up, and stumbled toward the light.