"You're hiding," Jade said one rainy afternoon, sitting on the curb outside the store. "My dad hid too. Before he left."

That night, Maya called her lawyer. Then her mother. Then, finally, the journalist who'd been asking for an interview—the one where she'd tell the real story, not the headlines.

Maya felt something crack in her chest. She'd left too—her life, her friends, her name. She'd checked into a motel under a fake ID and stopped answering calls.

Maya hadn't heard herself called "Babygirl" in fifteen years. Not since her father died. So when the girl behind the convenience store counter said it— "Easy, Babygirl, that's the third energy drink you've bought today" —Maya nearly dropped her change.

Jade shrugged. "My mom says I talk too much to strangers. But you don't look like a stranger. You look like someone who used to be fun."