While James Ford was too young to truly understand how far curiosity could reach, he could sense that something was different about this girl. Where others had asked after his well-being, where others had asked him about the man he was writing the letter to (and this, he'd come to learn, was largely because there were a whole lot of people on the island, every one of them lots, every one of them stumbling about in the way that James was), this girl asked a question that drove to the heart of the matter. In some ways, he'd wanted this kind of opportunity, one where he could tell the full story to someone, someone who didn't have any more credibility than he did, someone who probably couldn't make the police take off all on her own. James had nothing against the police. He'd wanted to join them, once upon a time.

But sometimes there were things that a man could only do himself, and even at eight, James knew this. He knew what it meant, although it'd be years yet until he could put a word to the feeling that burned within his chest, drawing out smoke, making it impossible to breathe— justice.

"A letter," he said quietly, his hand still tightly gripping the pen, even though the words couldn't come. He was, after all, trying to find the ones to hand over to the brunette, trying to piece them together into some coherent picture. "Writin' a letter to someone who ran away."