In three and a half minutes, Ellie will be eleven years old.

It is 11:56:30 PM, 30 July 1991, and she is on the wooden floor of a creaky little cottage on some godforsaken island. She has one blanket below her, and another, only slightly less patchy, wrapped over her. The door rattles in a gust of wind, and she shivers. The floor is dusty, and it's making her eyes itch. That, and her cousin's snoring from the pullout couch, is doing an admirable job of keeping her awake. She contemplates drawing something in the dust, but can't quite decide what. Maybe that snake she met.

She'd draw it eating her cousin, if she didn't think it would choke on him.

In one minute, she will be eleven years old.