That morning she was on the front porch.

There was Olive on the porch.

Olive was five. Or six. Her mother was in Mexico. I know nothing about her father. The woman who was looking after Olive was some relative of his, but she was old and her health was failing. Whatever that meant. Maybe it was just an excuse. Who'd want to be saddled, leashed, by a small child not one's own?
That's all the note said.
Olive offered up the crumpled bit to me last Tuesday morning when I opened my door and expected to leave for work in my junky car just like any morning I had an on-site job.
There was Olive on the porch looking up at me with her large black eyes. Her eyes, her face with its sharp chin, were like an old woman's face. She was strangely old, too, sober and intent on her tasks in her silent way. This didn't mean she was efficient. There had been more disasters in my cabin since she had arrived than ever before in its long history.