I wake up confused, panicked, not knowing where I am, sleeping in a bed that's not my own. My heart races and I'm about to cry out when I hear my father's voice in my head say, You're not a little girl anymore, Freddie.

I relax back into the cushions, letting fear ebb away and restoring my mind as I focus on where I may be. The pictures on the wall, the fireplace still burning, and grandfather's great bearskin rug on the floor. I remember now: our family trip to the cabin on the peninsula. Of course, I must have been dreaming. I draw the memory of sleep around me like a blanket and snuggle back into the couch.

My body aches in a satisfying way, exhausted from a long day of snowshoeing and sledding and cross-country skiing with the labs, Beans and Barley. I glance around the room but don't see them. Sleeping on the floor of my parents' room I suspect, joining my father in a chorus of snoring.

My father. He smiled several times today and scolded me only twice. He hasn't been this happy in months. At breakfast mother had whispered to me that she has been right to force him into this trip. We all could use a little time away. Of course she couldn't keep him from the television and he spent the first night watching the news of more rioting and protests from who knows where this time, but our maid Elise shooed me from the room saying I shouldn't worry about such things. All the girls were all relieved when the snow storm took out the satellite.

That night as Elise combed and braided my hair I asked her questions my parents refused to entertain. About why so many people were so angry.

"Politics, sweetheart," she had answered. "Always politics. But you don't need to worry, Freddie. You'll be a woman soon enough, going to school, meeting boys." I wrinkled my nose but she continued, drawing her hands through my hair. I was having difficulty keeping my eyes open.

"Look around you," she said in a hushed voice. "You have all these nice things, you get to go nice places. I'm sure one day you'll find a nice man who'll take care of you. So don't worry so much sweetheart. It's like my mother used to say: enjoy what you have today because tomorrow it could be gone."

I blink my heavy eyelids and remember the sensation of her fingers in my hair. "Why would anyone want to take our things away?" I asked, already half-asleep.

I don't remember if she ever answered.