When she asks about her father, they don’t answer her. She molds herself between the wall, bed, and door, dragging her woven doll with her. Their eyes, the doll’s and hers dart towards the phone. Where’s my father. She buries the doll to her chest, eyes on the phone. He will call. They wait for the phone to ring. When it does, the doll drops to the floor, forgotten. It’s not him.