"What did you do with the real Abigail?" I asked.
My heart attempted to gallop out my chest. I licked my dried lips. Every second she wasted answering the question, I dreaded the answer more.
It didn't help when the little girl looked at me with doe eyes. "She died."
I swallowed aloud.
Abigail was asthmatic. Yet, she always took her medication, and never once disobeyed to keep herself protected from the atmosphere around her. Even though she was only a child, she was more responsible than many adults I have come across. How could she have just died? I never heard of a funeral.
"How did she die?" I questioned in a whisper.
The little girl's face contorted. "She caught a bad cold which turned into pneumonia. The doctors couldn't help her at that time. Her lungs couldn't fight it."
