My blood instantly ran cold. The devastating sorrow that had just crushed me to my knees was instantly vaporized, replaced by the sharp, electric adrenaline of a combat soldier.
The little girl reached out and pressed a crumpled, white cocktail napkin into my palm. Without another word, she turned and sprinted back up the stairs, slipping through a side door.
I stared at the napkin in my hand. My fingers trembled—not from grief this time, but from a terrifying, dawning realization. I carefully unfolded the delicate paper. There, written in a rushed, frantic smear of black eyeliner, was the familiar, looping cursive I had memorized in the freezing trenches of the desert.