Twelve-year-old Milly Farrier leaned against the grimy window of the train's passenger car as it rolled through the plains of whichever state they were in now. If she squinted, the yellow grasses, clusters of emerald trees, and occasional farmhouses all swirled together — almost like one of her mother's abstract paintings.

Of course, Max Medici, the circus director, had always made Annie Farrier stick to a more relatable style for the boxcar signs and fairground banners. Not too abstract, but not too realistic. No, he wouldn't want that to destroy the magic of the experience. Only Milly, Joe, and their father had gotten to appreciate the sweep of colors her mother had brushed onto canvas in what she called her “action” pieces. They captured what the audience and circus lights looked like to her as she hung upside down from a horse during the show, wind whipping through her hair.

Milly knew he tried his best, but the new ads Rongo slapped together could never match her mother's bold, eye-catching scenes. Milly's stomach twisted and a tear slid down her cheek as she clutched the key dangling from her necklace.

A door in the ceiling screeched open and her younger brother dropped down into the car. She'd told him countless times not to cross between the train cars unless the train was at a standstill, but the eight-year-old never listened.

Quickly, Milly wiped her face dry. She had to be strong for him now.

“Joe, you know you're not supposed to change cars while we're moving —” Milly scolded.

“Unless it's an emergency,” Joe f inished as he got to her row. “But it is an emergency! Guess what, guess what?” Joe bounced onto the wooden bench across from her. His f loppy brown hair bobbed lightly, and his smile was so wide it could have split the sky. It was nice to see him so happy.

“What?”

“We got a letter! From Dad!”

Milly's heart nearly stopped, but Joe kept going, his words clattering almost as fast as the train's wheels. “It was jumbled up in Mr. Medici's accounting mail at the last station, and he just found it.” Beaming, Joe reached into his jacket and pulled out a stained white envelope with a f lourish.

Milly resisted the urge to lunge for it. Joe handed it over and she tugged out the creased paper, her eyes drinking up her father's loose handwriting. As she read the words, Joe babbled on.

“He's coming home, Milly! The army's released him with a medal and everything. Mr. Medici already sent off a telegram telling him to meet us in Joplin.”

Tears of joy pricked her eyes as she smiled up at Joe.

“He's coming home,” she echoed in wonder.

“I can't wait to hear all his stories,” Joe said. “I know he couldn't put anything in the letters in case they fell into enemy hands, but I’ll bet he is a hero! Thundering onto the battlef ield. I bet the Germans just threw up their hands in surrender....”

Milly's mind drifted, her brother's chattering fading into the background, just like the swaying of the train. She clutched the letter to her chest as though she could grab hold of her dad through his words. But she'd be able to hug him soon enough. Just a little bit longer. He'd make everything all right. Milly knew he couldn't bring back her mother — nobody could do that — but her dad was strong, her dad was brave, and he could do just about anything else.

They wouldn't have to worry anymore. He'd take care of everything. He'd take care of them. 8ESi2hzwbV1hqgA9ujHkWIq2ufNv0HBbnP0O7k00hB/clwEgioRT1clzn8Gy8qYh