The coat closet.

She's been left in there before, you know. For, oh, about ten seconds. The ritual is the same every week. Daddy gathers up the coats as we enter the church building and hangs them up in the walk-in coat closet in the foyer. After church, I pick the kids up from their classes, meader through the halls to the coat closet, enter with all the kids in tow and, while they put their own coats on, I help Eve slip into hers. Rachel's inevitably the last one to finish - her tiny (but independent!)hands fumble with zippers until she discovers she is alone in the coat closet. The cold, devoid-of-windows coat closet. To make matters worse, it's the only door in the world against which even the most persistent of three-year-olds fails. I'm pretty sure some of her worst nightmares revolve around this frightening abyss. I remember her, eventually. But usually only after her frantic screams awaken me from my routine. I guess those screams come in handy, after all. Poor third child. No wonder she comes into my room night after night. After agonizing night.