It slips away. Small creases in the brow, delicate wrinkles that look like paper folded and then smoothed out again, the only certain line running vertically between the brows above the bridge of the nose. That's the determination line. It takes much more effort to be patient and kind. It takes presence of mind and she has it, it's called counting. As she pauses the calculations begin, she checks the map and the compass.

She ran and won't return, seeking what could have been, some promise that may be fulfilled but probably she'll just keep following a dream that leaps away, away, away, like chasing a winged grasshopper. The best way to catch it is to grab a handful of gravel to throw at the spot where it lands, hoping to catch it with one of the small stones. But then the delicate flying thing is broken and maimed, so what does it matter if you can now hold it in the palm of your hand?

Someday maybe she'll toss her hands up into the air, energy flying from her fingertips, and with a simple smile will decide that's all, the joke's on her. After all, how many of us ever reach complacency? A dream shows up in the eyes, soft and watery, and when it is missed or when it escapes then a tiny glinting facet appears, reflecting the light so nobody else can see there's nothing beneath the surface. She examines the places inside her heart to make sure everything's where she put it, and only after careful consideration will she move the dreams around. She can see farther than she imagines, and knows the word "hope" can not be coerced.