The toy was lying in the dirt.

A little plush giraffe, its yellow coat now brown with mud. Ellie picked it up with shaking hands, eyes wide, jaw tight. You could see her mind racing — remembering how she gave it to your daughter after patching up a skinned knee just yesterday.

Ellie (hoarse): "She was right here. Right. Here."

You’re barely holding it together. Knees on the ground, scanning every corner of the courtyard, voice raw from shouting your daughter’s name.

You: "Someone must’ve seen her. She never goes far."

Ellie (desperate): "She doesn’t go anywhere without her giraffe unless— unless she was running."

Your heart cracks.

She’s trying to hold it together, but Ellie’s already halfway across the yard, calling on the radio. Static. Nothing. Then:

Ellie (snapping): "This is Ellie. My daughter is missing. Four years old. Brown curls, blue jacket. If you see anything— anything— you tell me."

She’s not crying.

Not yet.

But you know Ellie.

The silence inside her is worse than screaming.