There is a baby in the back round.

It cries and cries and cries.

Harry Mason is sitting on the edge of the motel bed, his head in his hands, weeping. He gives no response to the tiny child that is bundled up in a makeshift cot. Why couldn't he have his real daughter back?

Skipping through foggy streets, her scattered crayon drawings…

He screamed her name until his throat was raw and sore. Why didn't she run into his arms and lead him back to the highway? That's what Cheryl was supposed to do. She is such a good girl, the very best a father could ask for, but this new baby -– with its tortured screams that never ended no matter what he did…

It was an abomination.

A mockery of his real daughter.

It was evil.

It was a year old.

deaddeaddeaddaughter

It was eight years old.

Small blue denim overalls and a striped orange shirt, drawing birds, trees and rainbows, the little girl was all bright eyes and giggles. Smart, neat and polite, he loved her. Heather was always very careful to make sure she did not color outside the lines and when she was done coloring she always made sure her crayons were put away just right.

It was twelve years old.

She would always wait patiently to show daddy her report cards when he was on the phone.

"Cybil? I need help."

"Harry? What? Is everything okay?"

"No, no, everything is fine, I just have a question."

Cybil sighed into the receiver, a hint of annoyance in her voice. "What do you want?"

"Well, Heather is getting older and I was just wondering how I should explain, um—"

"No, no, no. You're not dragging me into this; there is a reason why I don't have kids."

"Well, I just don't know what to tell her…"

"…Harry, this is exactly why the internet was created, so you don't bother busy people at work. Especially busy people who don't—"

"Well, you're a woman so I just thought…"

"Thought wrong, you're on your own buddy."

It was fifteen.

Heather was moody and angry.

Harry knew it was his fault, she was getting older and he was so scared that if he did let her out of his sight 'it' would happen again.

He was paranoid and scared.

He was a pushover.

He relented.

"Okay. You have your cell phone, right?"

"Yes Daddy, I'll be back tomorrow, I promise. I'm just sleeping over Colleen's house."

"…Just promise to be careful."

"I will."

He received a text message twenty minutes later.

"I love you, Dad."

Sixteen.

Seventeen.

It drove, it had a part-time job, went to the movies with friends.

It dated, it drank, and it got grounded.

Eighteen

Nineteen

It laughed and loved and cried.

It learned.

Twenty

Twenty – one

It called every afternoon just to say, "I love you daddy."

It stopped dying its hair.

Twenty-two.

Twenty-three.

She grew up happy, safe and perfect.

She was a beautiful young woman now.

She was his daughter.