Betsy

           She stared out the window, watching the light drizzle litter the grass with small crystal drops. It was Monday, the first official day of summer vacation, and here she was.. sitting in her room, watching the rain.
           She rhythmically rocked in the small rocking chair, her bare feet meeting the carpeted floor and exerting a miniscule push with each completion of an oscillation.
           "Betsy?"
           The little girl glanced up, her golden curls bouncing with the small movement.
           Her mother stood in the doorway, wearing a bright yellow rain slicker with matching galoshes and a wide-brimmed, water resistant hat. To anyone else she would have appeared comical in her child-like raingear, her saucer-sized eyes staring in wide-eyed wonder from beneath the large rim of her hat, but it was attire that Betsy was accustomed to and of which she took no particular notice.
           "I'm going to run to the store to buy some more chicken wire to repair the fence. The rain should keep the FBI spies away for the day, so it's an excellent time to patch it all up without drawing their attention. Would you like to come?" she asked, one eye twitching nervously.
           Betsy stared at her mother sadly. When she had first begun this game of FBI agent spies, Betsy had played along, enjoying the imaginative ways her mother created to ward off the "spies." After six months of building fences, digging trenches, searching their house for electronic spy devices, and several shouted, frantic phone calls to the local police, Betsy realized her mom wasn't pretending. This was no game of make-believe to Betsy's mother.
           "No thanks, momma. I think I'll just stay here," Betsy said quietly, resuming her rocking.
           "Alright. If you go outside while I'm gone, make sure to put on all your rain gear. Even though it's cloudy out, those UV rays can still snake through and kill you. Don't forget your hat. And also, if you use the phone, make sure to dismantle it and check for taps before placing a phone call." Her mother stepped into the bedroom and crossed the width in several long strides, leaning down to plant a soft kiss on her daughter's head. "I love you, bebe," she said softly, ruffling Betsy's curls in one quick, affectionate movement.
           "I love you too, momma," Betsy said, her voice soft as a whisper, seeming to flutter on the air for a moment before dissipating into silence.
           Betsy's mother left quietly, going out a back window in case, despite the rain, someone was watching the front door.
           Betsy watched through her window, her attention momentarily diverted from the rain. Her sad eyes, beginning to look old beyond her years, followed her mother's progress as she glanced furtively around the backyard and then dashed for the nearest tree. She stood at the tree for a moment, her back pressed against it, her eyes wide beneath her hat, before leaping from the tree and somersaulting to a small bush.
           Betsy pulled her eyes away from her mother, familiar with the routine. After completing her acrobatic trek across the backyard, her mother would continue to dart from behind plants and signs until she reached a busstop. She would ride on this bus for perhaps five minutes, perhaps three hours, before deboarding and clambering upon a new bus. She would ride on several buses, anywhere from two to twelve, to "throw the spies" off her scent, before she would finally stop at a hardware store and purchase chicken wire.
           When she paid for the chicken wire, she would, of course, use cash. They can track you if you leave a paper trail of any kind, her mother always emphasized, every time she handed the cashier a wad of bills with a large, proud smile.
           The return trip would be similar to the departure - darting in between forms of cover, several bus rides, taking a different route back to the house than she took when she left. On her arrival back, however, she would march through the front door, her face lit in excitement, as if she is announcing triumphantly, "Aha! I made it, and you never caught me! You can't keep up with me; I have more tricks stored in my little finger than you do in all of your FBI books!"
           There was no telling what time Betsy's mother would arrive home. There would be no phone call saying she was on her way back. "They" might trace her call while she was out, and she wasn't going to let them take her away from her Betsy.
           Tears formed in the corners of Betsy's blue eyes. Her small nose tinged a rosey pink, and she sniffled in an attempt to stifle her sadness.
           One day, she knew, someone would come to take her mother away. But it wouldn't be any secret government agency.