i.

He was a collectible, not a toy. There was a difference.

Even he would admit that, over the years, he had regretted it sometimes. He'd watched enviously from his box, sitting high above in a place of honor, as three generations of children had grown up playing with toys. Still, it was better this way. He was honored.

Sometimes, late at night, he thought back to the beginning. There had been a shelf full of toys just like him (and he had to admit that, once upon a time, he had been a toy – only the passage of time had changed that, turned him from a child's plaything to a symbol of status), quietly talking to each other at night and wondering when they would get to go home with a child to call their own.

It was only chance that had seen him go home with someone who wanted to protect him, to keep him in his box where he would be safe. All it would have taken was his box being on a lower shelf, for his first owner to have grabbed the box to the left or the right of his, for a tiny little difference all those years ago. That's all that would have been needed for his life to have played out very differently.

Sometimes, just sometimes, Woody wondered what it might have been like to have actually gotten to be a toy.

ii.

Jessie was happy.

She knew that life was difficult for some toys. She'd talked to toys that belonged to other girls, from time to time, when she was taken to visit other homes. She'd heard the rumors of toys that were given away or forgotten as their owners grew older. Stories of homes where the toys knew they only had a few short years before they wouldn't be needed, or wanted, anymore.

It wasn't something that she could even comprehend.

Jessie's first owner had been Sarah. Sarah had loved her wholeheartedly, had taken her with her everywhere. She had started to grow up, yes, to the point where she didn't need Jessie anymore. And that's when she had given her to Rachel, her younger sister.

When Rachel had gotten too old for Jessie, she had been passed along to a younger sister, Linda. Linda had given her to Mary. From Mary, she had gone to Jean and John, who were the same ages. Then she had been passed on to little Emily, the baby of the family.

By then, Sarah was all grown up with children of her own, who were glad to play with a toy that had belonged to their own mother all those years ago. And the cycle continued, over and over, a neverending pattern of love and companionship.

Jessie felt sorry for the toys out there who didn't have that, and she wondered – just sometimes – whether or not there were any toys out there who looked like who in that position. The sisters she had known for just a short while, once upon a time, before she had a home and an owner to call their own.

She hoped there weren't. No one deserved that.

iii.

Woody hated his owner.

He'd never say it out loud, of course. No toy would, no matter the circumstances. But inside, where no one could hear? He could at least think it. He was allowed that much.

He dreamed sometimes of being lost, of a new boy or girl finding him and deciding that they wanted him for their very own. He remembered, vaguely, what it was like to be loved. Mark wasn't his first owner. There had been others in the past, Luke and Kevin and Shawn, who had taken care of him and adored him and kept him safe.

Except they had grown up, and he had been passed on, and now he belonged to someone who didn't love him. Who didn't even like him. Who saw him as nothing but a piece of plastic that could be used when he was bored.

Woody didn't move, didn't react no matter how much he wanted to do so, as a match's flame was held over his hand. He didn't look as the plastic slowly started to melt, his hand slowly becoming unrecognizable.

Mark wasn't his first owner, but Woody was fairly certain he was going to be his last. It wasn't fair. It wasn't right. But that was life, he supposed.

You never know what yours will hold.

iv.

Jessie had never had an owner, not really.

She was played with regularly, and there were always children who wanted to use their imaginations and include her in their games. But none of those boys and girls were hers.

Her life could be worse, she was well aware of that much. The kindergarten teacher who had bought her all those years ago to use in her classroom had never been her owner, not really, but she had still taken care of Jessie. Mrs. Woodard had been the one to clean the paint off of her when children played to rough, the one who sewed her arm back own the day two boys had gotten into a fight over her and ripped it off, the one who had made sure she would be somewhere where she would always be played with.

But sometimes she wished things could have been different.

She watched sometimes, when children brought toys with them from home. Sometimes they forgot them overnight, and those days she talked with them. They told her stories of being held tight at night, of being played with by the same child for years and years rather than for just a few short months, of fulfilling their purpose as a toy in a way that she hadn't even realized was possible.

Jessie's life wasn't bad, not really. It just wasn't always what she wished it could be.

v.

Woody held Jessie close to him in a tight hug as the lid to the chest shut above them. Bullseye curled up around them, while the Prospector sat down at Jessie's side and leaned against her.

"How long do you think we'll be in here this time?" Jessie asked quietly.

Woody hesitated for a moment, well aware that both Bullseye and the Prospector were listening closely to him as well. "I'm not sure," he finally said, answering as honestly as he could. "Joseph's getting older. He's eventually going to decide he's too old to pull out his toys, even occasionally."

Jessie let out a quiet sound, not quite a sob but closer than Woody would have liked. He hugged her a little tighter, aware that the Prospector was doing the same.

"What's important is that the four of us are together," Woody said firmly. "Like we've always been. That's all that matters."

"What if he decides to get rid of us?" the Prospector asked, his voice lacking its usual energy. "What if he decides to split us up?"

Woody shook his head. "That won't happen," he said decisively. "Don't even consider it."

He didn't even want to think about a life where he was on his own, without his family at his side. Or even with a different family. They were his, and he was theirs. That's how it had always been. That's how it would always be.