It was nearly ten o'clock at night and the rain was quickly turning to sleet. This storm was supposed to hit the California Sierra Nevadas pretty hard by dumping a load of snow in the high country and plenty of it even in the foothills, so anyone with any kind of sense knew better than to be out and about. A bad feeling settled in his gut. There was no one he could imagine who would venture into this storm without good reason.

"John? It's me, Gladys."

The sound of his neighbor's voice, thin and reedy, alarmed him. It was too late for house calls of an ordinary nature and Gladys—after going through surgery a few days prior—should've been in bed resting.

He opened the door and Gladys offered him a weak and somewhat pained smile as she and three little girls were ushered in from the biting cold.

"What the hell is going on?" he asked yet immediately guided Gladys to his leather chair. "What in the Sam Hill are you doing out in this storm in your condition? You just had surgery, woman. Are you trying to kill yourself?"

"Don't yell at her. It's not her fault," piped up the middle girl whose short stack of wild hair was matted to her head. The poor kid looked like a drowned pixie. She rubbed at her pert nose but stared John down with attitude. "Daddy didn't stay long enough to listen that she was sick."

John ran his hand through his hair. "And you are? And who's your daddy?"

"We're the Dollings and I'm Taylor," the little tyke proclaimed, ignoring the nervous jostling from her older sister to be quiet. "Who are you?" she aske