A small girl sitting on the seat of a rusted swing-set gazed hopelessly out upon the horizon. Tears cascaded down her cheeks leaving white trails through the dirt on her skin. She looked beat-up and bruised; her little white dress was torn up and covered with stains of dirt and muck. Her feet were scarred and blistered and they would hurt if she attempted to walk. A sad little girl under an angry amber sky where no clouds dared to form, the dried-up wire-like grass in a desolate park and the rusted swing-set, painted a picture of a home that was no more than a distant memory. Harriet was all alone.
Harriet heard a noise coming from outside. She scrambled up onto pink wooden chest that had a beautiful blue butterfly painted on its top. She peered out the window. Down at the end of the drive-way Harriet saw a dark sedan crawling up the dusty road, its wheels spitting out dirt behind it as it sped toward the house. Out of the corner of her eye Harriet noticed her mother and father standing in the front garden and who gave a slight wave in the direction of the oncoming vehicle. Harriet’s mother was a beautiful woman and wonderfully kind. She wore a dress that was the slightest shade of green, a white pair of sneakers and in her she wore a ribbon given to her by Harriet, her rich brown hair gently falling across her shoulders. Her father was dressed in a white button-up shirt, a brown waist-coat and brown slacks. Just in front of her parents Harriet heard the dark sedan whistle to a halt and out stepped a slender, stern-looking man dressed in a black suit that ended in impossibly shiny shoes.