My mother called my six-year-old daughter “a burden” at Christmas dinner, so I took her presents and walked out—but by New Year’s, Grandma was begging for a second chance.

They emerged from the culvert into the shadow of a towering, derelict brick tower standing beside a network of rusted railway tracks. Snow had drifted heavily against the iron door, but Arthur used a crowbar from his pack to lever the latch loose, pulling the heavy door open with a metallic shriek.

Inside, the switch-house was dry, smelling of oil and old wood. Arthur immediately shoved a thick wooden timber through the handles of the door, barricading them in.

"Sit," Emma whispered to Maya, setting her down on an old canvas cot in the corner of the switchman's office. She took off the girl's wet boots, checking her little feet. They were cold, but pink and dry. "You did so good, sweetie. You were so brave."

Maya looked up, her dark eyes reflecting the faint moonlight filtering through the cracked transom above. "Mommy, Grandma was really mean to us, wasn't she?"

The question struck Emma like a blow to the chest. She knelt down, taking Maya's small hands in her own. "Grandma was very sick inside, Maya. She thought money and power were more important than people. But that's not our fault. You are the most wonderful thing in my life, and you will never, ever be a burden. Do you hear me?"

Maya nodded, leaning forward to wrap her thin arms tightly around Emma’s neck. "I know, Mommy. Because you came back for my bear."

A tear slipped down Emma’s cheek, hot and fast, but she blinked it away.

Across the room, Arthur had cracked open a junction box mounted on the brick wall. He pulled out an old rotary phone handset with alligator clips, attaching them directly to the copper terminals within the switchboard. He lifted the receiver, listening intently.

A low, mechanical dial tone hummed in the dark.

Arthur dialed a ten-digit sequence by memory. He waited through four long, agonizing rings before the line connected with a soft pop of static.