Someone told me white blotches on Polaroids are really fairies.

I’m looking through a shoebox full of the things in our kidnapping suspect’s basement.

There’s the girl--with the bright splotch above her head. Hers is just the latest among so many others though.

Funny, I know some of these kids. Still see them around. Doesn’t make sense to find their faces here.

Then, the call comes.

They found the girl. Back home, like she never left. She’s quiet though, different.

I look at her picture again. I study those light spots, hoping I don’t see the outline of wings.