My name is Rina. I'm six years old and someone took me from my bed when it was dark.

I didn't scream or cry, although I assume that would be what a normal six-year-old would do. Instead, I quietly did as the kidnapper asked, hoping my best friends in the whole world would notice my absence.

I sleep on the journey to wherever I'm going. Being six, I don't recognize anything once we leave the small town and the rolling hills blur one into the next.

"Where are we?" My voice feels scratchy and I yawn hugely. Someone passes me a juice box and I chug it down. "Thank you."

I hope remembering my manners will make my parents proud.

Next comes a sandwich with egg and ham. I wish for cheese as I take a bite. But it's warm and tastes good, so I don't complain.

Instead, I look out the window at the lights of passing cars and wonder where the people who drive by might be going. I wonder if there might be another child in a car zooming down the road who doesn't belong to the people driving.

I try not to cry, but as I turn my thoughts toward my best friends, the tears come in earnest.

"Rina," Randall says and I want to jump with joy at his voice. I hug him fiercely and he reminds me that no one can see him except me.

"Don't cry, little one," a man's voice says. "We aren't going to hurt you. We just need something from your parents. Once they hand it over, we'll let them bring you home safe and sound."

I dry my eyes and ask, "Can I have a pen and paper please?"

"Sure," the man says and hands me my treasures. "I'm going to draw the others," I say to Randall and he smiles at me. I take my time drawing my friends. Stanley, my favorite stuffed animal is a mess of other animals. He has a pretty, scaled body in the shiniest blue you've ever seen. Each of his legs once belonged to a different stuffed dog. He sports a long lion tail, a pretty pink flamingo head and a useless set of elephant ears to pass as his wings.

Then there's Franco, he's the funny monster who sleeps under my bed. He loves comedy but can also do a very real Nightmare on Elm Street, if the mood strikes him. He saves those performances for when I have friends over who like scary movies.

And of course, there's Randall. He's my imaginary friend who's always there when I need him most. I've never been more thankful for Randall than right now. Now, I don't have to be alone.

I look out the window, and I take one last look at my drawing. I pat the drawing and sit there for seven hours.

Nope, I no longer love you. I think of him. I start to scream into my hands and then yell in German.

"Guten morgen! Guten tag!"