By the time the fireworks went off above the arena in Los Angeles, the sky looked like it was catching fire.

Fifty thousand phones glowed like stars in the dark, every screen pointed toward the girl standing dead center onstage, under a rain of gold confetti. Her name pulsed across massive LED screens in letters taller than a house:

AVELINE

America’s newest obsession.

Her sequined gold jumpsuit caught every flash of light. Her voice soared through the stadium, smooth and powerful, the kind of voice that made people pull over on the freeway just to stop and listen when her songs came on the radio.

But in that exact moment, as she belted out the last note of her biggest hit, all she could see was him.

A man, shoving through the crowd at the edge of the stage. Security guards swarmed around him. He was older now, his hair more gray than she remembered, his jeans stained, his T-shirt wrinkled, his hands raised like he was walking toward a firing squad instead of a pop concert.

“Sweetie!” he shouted over the screaming. “It’s me, Goose, remember?!”

The nickname sliced into her like broken glass.

Goose.

Nobody had called her that in years. Not the stylists, not the choreographers, not the label executives, not the woman who held her contract in a death grip.

No one.

Her next line died in her throat. For one heartbeat, the stadium fell silent inside her head. Her fingers went cold around the microphone.

She watched security slam him against the barricade. Fans shrieked—not in fear, but excitement. This was drama in real time, better than anything on their screens.

“Stay away from her, you maniac!” a woman shouted.

Aveline knew that voice too.

Vivian Cooper, the woman who had discovered her. The woman the press called a “star-making genius.” The woman who owned her.

“Get him out of here!” Vivian screeched from the side of the stage, her diamond bracelets flashing as she pointed. “He’s not allowed to be within fifty feet of her! You all know that! Move!”

The man struggled, twisting in the guards’ arms.

“I’m not trying to hurt her!” he yelled. “She’s my daughter!”

Aveline’s knees wobbled. The mic shook in her hand. Somewhere in the crowd, a chant started again—her name, over and over, echoing around the stadium like thunder.

AVELINE! AVELINE! AVELINE!

Her vision blurred. She forced a glittering smile back onto her face, like she’d been trained to do since she was twelve.

“Sorry, folks,” the band leader joked into his mic, trying to smooth it over. “Little technical difficulty there. Who’s ready for one more song?”

The crowd roared.

On cue, Aveline raised the mic and sang.

Her voice didn’t waver. Not once.

But inside, something cracked.

Backstage, chaos was just another part of the job. Assistants carrying garment bags speed-walked down narrow hallways. A makeup artist dashed past clutching an armful of brushes and palettes like a soldier carrying ammunition. Someone yelled about a broken heel. Someone else yelled about a last-minute interview request from a late-night show in New York.

In the middle of it all, Aveline sat motionless in front of a lighted mirror in her dressing room, mascara still perfect, lips still painted, expression frozen.

“Ladies, step aside!” Vivian barked as she strode into the room in four-inch heels and a white pantsuit that probably cost more than the car Aveline’s dad used to drive. “Step aside! Give her some space.”

Her tone suggested “space” meant “get out of my line of sight.”

The stylists parted instantly.

Vivian leaned over her, hands on the armrests of the makeup chair. Her perfume was sharp and expensive, like something that would burn your throat going down.

“What did I tell you about crying?” Vivian hissed under her breath. “Don’t you dare ruin your makeup.”

Aveline blinked back the tears burning in her eyes.

“You saw him,” she whispered. “My dad. Goose.”

“Your father,” Vivian said in a voice like ice, “lost the right to call you that a long time ago. He is not supposed to be here. That’s why we have a restraining order. Remember?”

“But why—”

“Smile,” Vivian snapped. “Like you mean it.”

There was a knock at the door.

“Ms. Cooper?” an assistant poked her head in. “The contest winners are here. The fans.”

Vivian straightened instantly, switching personas like someone flipping a light switch.

“Bring them in!” she beamed, her voice suddenly warm and sugary. “Bring the fans in.”

Three teenage girls burst into the room as if a dam had broken, shrieking, phones already in recording mode.

“Oh my God, Aveline!” one squealed. “We love you so much!”

“We flew in from Texas!” another cried. “We saved up for months!”

Aveline’s heart pounded. She wanted to run after the man being dragged away in handcuffs and ask every question that had sat in her chest for years.

Instead, she smiled for selfies.

She hugged strangers.

She let them cry on her shoulder.

Inside, she felt like a very expensive robot.

Hours later, in a much quieter part of downtown Los Angeles, a man sat hunched over a diner table, staring at a coffee he’d forgotten to drink.

“David,” said the woman across from him gently, “you’re shaking.”

“I saw her, May,” he whispered, gripping the mug harder. “She looked right at me… and she was scared. Of me.”

May, his older sister, reached across the table and put her hand over his.

“What did you expect?” she asked softly. “You disappeared from her life when she was just a kid. All she knows now is what they’ve told her.”

“I didn’t disappear.” His jaw clenched. “They took her from me.”

May knew better than to argue. He’d told the story enough times. How could she forget?

Before there was a world tour. Before there were Grammys. Before the million-dollar brand deals and Madison Square Garden and Today Show interviews… there was a girl on a street corner and a beat-up guitar.

Ten years earlier, in a small American city whose downtown still smelled like coffee and car exhaust, a little girl had stood on a busy sidewalk and sung her heart out.

She was eight, too serious for her age, with big brown eyes and a voice that made people slow down and turn their heads.

“I’m… waiting…” she sang, perched on an upside-down milk crate. “Waiting for someone to find me, to give me the time and love me over and over again…”

Her father, David Waters, leaned against a brick wall a few feet away, watching proudly. His hands were calloused from odd jobs, his jeans faded at the knees, but his eyes were bright whenever he looked at her.

That day, a small stuffed goose sat beside her tip jar, a cheap fairground prize with one wing slightly torn.

“Daddy, look!” she had giggled, holding it up earlier that morning. “It’s you. The silly goose.”

“That’s incredible, sweetheart,” he’d laughed. “Guess I’m Goose now.”

The nickname stuck. So did the promise he’d made that night, when her mom didn’t show up for her school talent show—again.

Mom had sent a rushed text about work, about picking up extra shifts, about “next time, I promise.”

There had been lots of those promises.

When Aveline climbed off the stage clutching a second-place ribbon, her eyes shining with tears that she stubbornly refused to let fall, David had knelt in front of her.

“Mommy isn’t coming again, is she?” she’d asked softly.

He’d swallowed the knot in his throat. “She wanted to be here,” he said. “She has to work.”

It was half true and half an excuse.

“I know it’s hard, Goose,” he told her. “But I want you to know something. I will always be there for you. No matter what. Just like that silly goose is always there for his girl, okay?”

She wrapped her arms around his neck, holding on like she’d never let go.

He believed that would be enough.

Then Jill got tired.

Tired of wondering how to pay rent on a waitress salary. Tired of counting coins and pretending she wasn’t counting. Tired of watching her daughter sing for strangers with a plastic tip jar.

“Don’t forget to project,” Jill told Aveline on that street corner one night, when the little girl’s voice had started to crack from overuse. “Come on. They can’t hear you over the traffic.”

“Mom, my throat hurts,” Aveline had whispered.

“I don’t want excuses,” Jill snapped. “People aren’t going to tip if they can’t hear you.”

“Work?” David had shouted when he stormed up and saw them. “You call this work? She’s your daughter, not your employee.”

“Exactly,” Jill shot back. “My daughter. And if you were able to provide for us like a real man, I wouldn’t have to do this.”

They both froze when someone cleared her throat.

A woman stood there in a crisp blazer, heels clicking on the concrete. Her hair was perfectly styled, her lipstick flawless, her smile trained and sharp.

“Excuse me,” she said, looking from the worn guitar to the tip jar to Aveline’s face. “Are you two the parents of this incredibly talented young singer?”

“Yes,” Jill said quickly. “And you are?”

“I’m an angel sent down from the heavens above to change your lives,” the woman replied with a little laugh. “My name is Vivian Cooper. I’m a music manager based in Los Angeles. And your daughter is a superstar.”

Jill’s eyes flashed with something like hunger. David’s gut twisted.

“She’s just a kid,” he said carefully. “She doesn’t have a career—”

“Yet,” Vivian cut in. “But with guidance? With the right team? She could be the next big thing. Bigger than any name on the Billboard Hot 100 right now. I can see it.”

“Like Taylor Swift?” Aveline asked, eyes wide.

“With a voice like yours?” Vivian smiled directly at her. “You could be even bigger.”

“Oh my gosh,” Jill whispered. “Did you hear that, David?”

“Dad, please,” Aveline begged. “Please, can we at least hear her out? Please?”

David looked from his daughter’s hopeful face to Jill’s desperate one.

“Okay,” he said at last. “We’ll listen. But we do this my way. Carefully.”

He had no idea what “carefully” meant when the other person in the room knew exactly how to bend the rules.

The contract meeting took place in a tiny office above a coffee shop, because that was still all Vivian could afford back then.

She laid out the papers with a flourish.

“This is boilerplate,” she said smoothly. “Standard language. I’ll get her signed to a label. We’ll get her into studios in Los Angeles. She’ll have vocal coaches, stylists, choreographers. A real shot.”

David read the contract. Every page made him feel colder.

“Is this a joke?” he asked, flipping through the fine print. “This basically makes her your property. You get half of everything she earns? You own the rights to every song she ever sings, writes, or breathes on?”

Vivian smirked. “It’s not that dramatic.”

“It literally says you own anything that ‘comes out of her mouth,’” he snapped. “I’m not signing this.”

“David, wait,” Jill said, grabbing his arm. “There’s a million-dollar signing bonus. And fifty thousand a month after that. Do you have any idea what that would do for us?”

“I don’t care about the money,” he said. “This isn’t right.”

He turned to his daughter—his Goose, sitting on the swivel chair with her feet not quite touching the ground.

“We’re not doing this,” he said gently. “Come on. Let’s go.”

They left.

For a while.

Two years later, Aveline sang into a microphone in a real studio in Los Angeles while a small red light glowed in the corner. Her voice was stronger now, trained, precise. Her hair was styled, her clothes expensive, her sneakers brand-new.

There was no goose stuffed animal in sight.

In the glassed-in booth outside, Vivian sat with a producer, nodding along as the first chorus played back.

“She’s going to be huge,” he said. “You hit the jackpot with this one.”

Vivian smiled thinly. “I know.”

Back home, in a noisy apartment, David opened his mail and felt the world tilt.

Divorce papers.

Custody petition.

Allegations.

The words blurred together.

“Unfit.”

“Emotionally unstable.”

“History of anger issues.”

He took the papers to a lawyer, hoping there had been some mistake.

“There’s more,” the lawyer said gently, sliding a court document across the table. “Your wife testified that you hit her. That you hit your daughter.”

“What?” David’s voice cracked. “That is not true. I would never—”

“According to this,” the lawyer continued, not meeting his eyes, “the judge believed her. He’s granted primary custody to the mother and limited your visitation. And if this restraining order is filed,” he added, tapping another form, “you won’t be allowed near Aveline at all.”

David felt like someone had punched the air out of his lungs.

“She lied,” he whispered. “She lied so Vivian could have her.”

“I’m sorry,” the lawyer said. “It happens more than you’d think. And if you sign this, there’s nothing we can do.”

He didn’t sign it.

The court did it anyway.

By the time Aveline’s first music video hit a million views on YouTube, her father was watching from a cheap motel room, clutching the remote like it might break.

He still called her Goose under his breath.

He never stopped looking for a way to get her back.

Years flew past in a blur of stadium lights, promo photos, award shows, and private jets.

Records broke. Headlines screamed. “America’s Little Street Singer Conquers the World!” “From Sidewalk to Super Bowl Halftime!” “Aveline Owns the Charts With Her Third #1 Single!”

Behind the scenes, the conversations were less glossy.

Every show sold out. Every city—Chicago, New York, Dallas, Miami—brought in more money than the last. Vivian’s accountant showed her spreadsheets that made her almost giddy.

“Every seat in every arena across the country sold out,” he told her. “The early projections say we’ll clear fifteen million from this U.S. tour alone.”

“And the label wants the next album already,” Vivian said, sipping her latte. “They’ve been calling nonstop.”

“Isn’t it too soon?” her assistant, Alice, ventured. “Aveline just finished one tour. Maybe she needs a break.”

“A break?” Vivian scoffed. “Absolutely not. With her attitude lately, I have a year, maybe two before she’s completely burnt out. I need to get as much out of her as I can.”

“And then what?” the accountant asked with a nervous chuckle.

“Then we toss her aside like the others,” Vivian said plainly. “Find a new prodigy. This is America. There’s always another kid on TikTok.”

Alice swallowed. “That’s… harsh.”

Vivian shrugged. “I’m not running a charity. I’m running an empire.”

Inside the mansion the label had rented for her in the Hollywood Hills, Aveline stood in front of a piano, fingers hovering above the keys.

The city twinkled below like a spilled jewelry box. The Hollywood sign glowed in the distance. Somewhere down there on the Walk of Fame, tourists were taking pictures with her star.

Her star.

And yet she felt smaller than she had on that chipped sidewalk in her old city.

She took a breath and sang softly, words she’d written herself.

“Did it go? Did it change?” she murmured. “It feels like my whole world won’t be the same…”

Her voice filled the room, raw and real. This song wasn’t polished for radio. It wasn’t designed to be a catchy hook for a dance challenge. It was just her.

The door swung open.

“Knock it off,” Vivian said sharply. “No one wants to hear that stuff. Stick to the songs that actually make money.”

Aveline’s hands fell away from the keys. “But these are the kind of songs I like,” she said quietly.

“You will write the kind of songs I tell you to and nothing else,” Vivian snapped. “Is that clear?”

“Maybe I won’t,” Aveline whispered, surprising herself. “Maybe I’ll go off on my own. Write my own music. Sing what I want.”

Vivian laughed once. It was not a nice sound.

“Not in this lifetime, you won’t,” she said. “You want to know why? Because I own everything that comes out of your mouth. It’s all in the contract your mother signed. You are mine.”

“That can’t be legal,” Aveline said, but her voice shook.

“Oh, but it is,” Vivian said. “So unless you want to go back and live the way you used to, in that cramped apartment, singing on the street for quarters, you’ll sit down and write me a song that sells.”

She left, heels clicking on the marble.

When the door shut, Aveline’s composure finally cracked. Tears slid silently down her cheeks, smudging the perfect eyeliner someone else had drawn on her face.

She pressed her forehead to the cool wood of the piano and wished, for the first time in years, that Goose would walk through the door and tell her she could quit.

He tried.

After the arena incident in Los Angeles, David went to a lawyer again, hands shaking.

“There has to be something I can do,” he insisted. “She’s my daughter. They’re working her to death, and everyone can see it. She fainted onstage last month in Houston. They called it ‘exhaustion’ on the news. My little girl is in trouble.”

The attorney flipped through the old file. “This doesn’t look good,” he said. “According to this, the court still considers you unfit and unstable. Your ex-wife testified that you were dangerous. Unless you can prove the testimony was false…”

“I can,” David said. “I just—I don’t know how.”

“The only person who can help you is your ex-wife,” the lawyer said. “She’s who you need to talk to.”

Jill’s house was bigger now. Bigger yard, bigger windows, bigger everything. It sat behind a gate in a quiet American suburb, with a perfect lawn and a brand-new SUV in the driveway.

But when David knocked, she answered with shadows under her eyes.

“What are you doing here?” she asked.

“I need to talk about our daughter,” he said.

“I’m not going through this with you again,” Jill sighed. “The judge made his decision.”

“She’s in trouble,” David said. “You’ve seen the interviews. The clips online. She looks exhausted. She looks scared. You know I’m right.”

Jill looked away. For a second, guilt crossed her face like a cloud.

“It’s not too late to get her back,” he pressed. “We tell the truth. We go back to court. We fix this.”

“Too late,” Jill whispered. “What’s done is done.”

“Is the money really worth this?” he asked. “Do you like this life so much that you’d give up your daughter for it?”

She flinched.

Vivian’s voice popped into her head, smooth as silk. A million dollar signing bonus. Fifty thousand a month. A fresh start. All you have to do is tell the court the truth as I write it.

Back then, Jill had convinced herself they were only “white lies.” That this was her one shot to secure a better life for her child.

Now those lies sat on her shoulders like concrete.

“I can’t help you,” she said. “Even if I wanted to, she’d cut us off. She’d take everything. I can’t go back to the way things were.”

“Our little girl is worth going back,” David said. “She always was.”

“Please leave,” Jill whispered.

He did.

She closed the door and slid down it, tears finally spilling over.

“I’m so sorry,” she sobbed. “I’m so sorry, Aveline.”

The breaking point came on a Wednesday in Atlanta.

They were in rehearsal for a live TV special. The dancers lined up, sweat shining on their skin under the fluorescent lights. The choreographer clapped out counts.

“Five, six, seven, eight!”

Aveline stumbled.

“Sharper movement,” he barked. “More attitude. Yes, there it is!”

She tried again, vision tunneling, chest tight. The lights felt too hot. Her lungs felt too small.

Her ankle rolled. The room spun.

She hit the floor.

“Oh my gosh, Aveline!” Alice dropped her clipboard and ran forward.

“Don’t be dramatic,” Vivian snapped. “She’s fine.”

“She’s not fine,” Alice shot back, voice trembling. “Look at her.”

Everyone did.

Aveline lay on the floor, breathing fast, eyes unfocused. She fought to sit up.

“I’m okay,” she lied. “I’m fine. Just dizzy.”

“See?” Vivian said. “She’s fine. Everyone, take thirty. That’s lunch.”

Alice helped Aveline to a quiet corner.

“Are you okay?” she whispered. “Do you want to eat with us?”

“No,” Aveline said quickly, masking her panic. “I’m just tired.”

Vivian swept over like a storm cloud. “You know the rules,” she snapped at Alice. “No one talks to Aveline without going through me. Go. Now.”

Alice stepped back, burning with anger she couldn’t show.

Vivian turned to Aveline with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “We’ll get you something for your throat,” she said. “You sounded raspy.”

“My throat hurts,” Aveline admitted.

“What did I just say about excuses?” Vivian said. “You still have a media day tomorrow. I don’t want you looking tired on camera. Go rest. But not too long. We still have three songs to run.”

That night, while the city lights shined outside her hotel window, Aveline lay in bed staring at the ceiling.

Let me out of here, she thought. I want to go home.

But the home she remembered was dusty floors and cheap curtains and a silly goose stuffed animal.

She didn’t know if that place existed anymore.

The rescue, when it finally came, didn’t look like a rescue at first.

It looked like a small act of rebellion.

After another brutal recording session, after another fight about the kind of songs she wanted to write versus the kind of songs schedules and charts demanded, Aveline slipped away.

She snuck past the cameras, past the catering table, past the posters with her own face staring back at her from every wall.

She made it as far as the back door before security spotted her.

“Aveline?” one of the drivers said, surprised. “Where are you going?”

She recognized him. Joey. He’d driven her on every leg of this U.S. tour, from New York to Nashville to LA. He was quiet, easygoing, always offering water bottles and mints.

“Anywhere but here,” she blurted. “Please. Just drive.”

He hesitated for only a second.

“Get in,” he said.

They drove.

Down the freeway that cut through the heart of the city. Past billboards advertising her own face. Past the studio where she’d recorded her first single. Past the hotel where fans had camped for days just to see her wave from a balcony.

“Where to?” Joey asked.

She thought of the only person who had ever looked at her and seen just a kid, not a brand.

“My dad,” she said. “Take me to my dad.”

They showed up at May’s small house just outside the city as the sun was setting, painting the American sky in streaks of orange and pink.

May opened the door in sweatpants and a T-shirt, hair in a messy bun, expecting a delivery or a neighbor.

She got a global pop star instead.

“Goose?” David whispered behind her, stepping into view, his expression already crumbling. “What… what are you doing here?”

“Dad,” Aveline choked out, and all at once she was eight years old again, clutching a stuffed goose and promising she’d make the world listen to her songs.

She threw herself into his arms.

“You were right,” she sobbed into his shirt. “About everything. She’s a monster. She keeps me locked up like a prisoner. I just want to come home.”

May stepped aside to let them in, tears streaming down her face.

Joey lingered in the doorway, guilt and relief battling in his chest.

“She’s telling the truth,” he said. “Vivian’s been treating her like she’s not human. I couldn’t stand by anymore. I know I could lose my job. Or worse. But I had to do something.”

David held his daughter tighter. “You’re staying with us now,” he said. “I’m never letting you go again.”

They had exactly twenty minutes of peace.

Then the police arrived.

Blue and red lights painted the front of the house.

Neighbors peeked through curtains. A camera crew from a local news station, quick as vultures, showed up at the end of the block.

In the living room, a pair of officers stood with hands on their belts, listening.

“This is a misunderstanding,” David insisted. “She asked to come here. Joey drove her. That’s not kidnapping.”

Vivian burst through the door behind them, wrapped in drama like a designer coat.

“There’s my little girl!” she cried, ignoring the way Aveline recoiled. “I thought I lost you to this horrid man. Why isn’t he in handcuffs? He kidnapped my adopted daughter!”

“No, he didn’t,” Joey said firmly. “She asked me to drive her. I have the messages to prove it.”

Vivian whirled on him. “You’re fired. And I want her arrested, too. She helped the kidnapper. They’re all in on it. Arrest them!”

“Ma’am,” one of the officers said. “We’re still trying to understand—”

“It’s over now,” Vivian said, stepping close to Aveline. “You’re coming with me, sweetheart. They can’t do anything about it. You’re under contract. Let’s go.”

A voice cut through the chaos.

“Actually,” it said, calm and clear, “there is something we can do.”

Everyone turned.

Jill stood in the doorway, shoulders squared, eyes red but steady.

Behind her, a man in a suit—one of the detectives who’d been working with David’s lawyer—held a folder bulging with papers.

“Joey told me what was happening,” Jill said, walking into the room. “He told me how you used him, how you used all of them, and tossed them aside when you were done. I couldn’t stay quiet anymore.”

“What are you doing here?” Vivian snapped. “This has nothing to do with you.”

“This has everything to do with me,” Jill said. “I’m the one who lied for you. I’m the one who stood in front of a judge and said things about my husband that weren’t true. So you could take our daughter. So you could own her.”

The room went still.

“I told the police everything,” Jill continued, her voice shaking but strong. “How you pressured me into lying. How you offered money. How you promised to make us ‘filthy rich’ if I just signed on the dotted line. How you kept my daughter away from her father, how you kept her working past exhaustion, how you treated her like a product instead of a person.”

“That’s just hearsay,” Vivian scoffed. “You have no proof.”

“Actually, we do,” the detective said, stepping forward. He opened the folder and pulled out several documents. “Your accountant was arrested this morning. He gave us access to your records in exchange for a lighter sentence. We’ve got bank transfers, emails, contracts, voice messages. Enough evidence to void every contract you’ve forced your artists into—and to have you charged on multiple counts.”

“That’s impossible,” Vivian snapped. “I’m one of the most powerful managers in this business. You can’t do this to me.”

“The only person going anywhere in handcuffs tonight is you, Ms. Cooper,” the detective replied. “Officers?”

The cops moved in.

“This is a mistake!” Vivian yelled as they pulled her hands behind her back. “You’re throwing away the biggest star in the world! You’re all going to regret this. Do you know who I am?”

“Yeah,” one of the officers said. “We do.”

They led her out past the flashing lights, past the cameras already filming, past the neighbors whispering on their porches.

The door closed.

For a long moment, no one moved.

Then Aveline turned to her parents—both of them—and took a trembling breath.

“I’m so sorry it took me this long,” Jill said, tears spilling freely now. “I was scared. I was selfish. I chose money and comfort and told myself it was for you. I knew it was wrong, and I did it anyway. You don’t have to forgive me, but I needed to make this right.”

“I’m just glad you came back,” Aveline whispered. “Both of you.”

David pulled them both into a hug. Jill clung to her daughter like she might disappear again if she let go.

“I’m never letting you go again,” David said into her hair. “We’re going to fix this, Goose. We’ll go back to court. We’ll get that old decision overturned. And this time, we’ll make sure nobody ever owns you again.”

“Does that mean…” Aveline swallowed, suddenly sounding like the little girl on the milk crate again. “Does that mean I can write my own songs now?”

David laughed, a sound half joy and half relief. “It means you can write whatever you want,” he said. “If you want to walk away from all of this, we will. If you want to keep singing, we’ll find the right people to help you. People who care about you, not just your chart position. But it’s your choice this time. Not a contract’s. Yours.”

Outside, reporters were already spinning the story: “Pop Princess Freed From Controlling Manager,” “Secret Truth Behind America’s Sweetheart,” “From Contract to Comeback: Aveline’s Next Chapter.”

Inside May’s small living room, with its mismatched couch and fading curtains and the smell of reheated pizza, the biggest star in the country wiped the last of her stage makeup off with a cheap drugstore wipe and curled up between her parents like any other kid who’d just survived something too big for words.

For the first time in years, she felt safe.

For the first time in years, she felt like more than a brand name on a stadium screen.

She felt like a girl again.

She closed her eyes and pictured a street corner in a forgotten American downtown, a cheap stuffed goose on a crate beside her, her dad leaning against a brick wall, smiling like she hung the moon.

Somewhere out there, the world waited to see what she would do next.

For once, she couldn’t wait to find out, too.