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.

Rina. Rina. Wake up!

I slowly open my eyes to Randall and instantly pull him close. I'm cold and lonely and all I want is to go home. I miss my mom and dad, and even my pesky older brother. Do they know I'm missing? Are they looking for me?

Tears threaten, but Randall keeps me calm. "We have to make sure we stay small and quiet. Maybe they won't notice us so much that way."

"I hope Stanley and Franco can find us," I say, my lip trembling from the cold. Eventually someone brings me something to eat and I'm allowed to shower and I'm given warm clothes. I want to sleep, but Randall says I have to pay attention. My head hurts, but I try to look and listen.

A knock comes at my door and when I open it, I nearly squeal to see Stanley there with Franco behind him. Instead of coming into my room though, they grab me up. "Stay very, very quiet." Stanley carries me like a sack and I make myself and small and silent as possible. Then we're stepping outside and it's cold and dark. But the stars in the sky are like bits of hope and I snuggle closer to Stanley to stay warm.

Stanley carries me for a long time before Franco offers to take over. I'm shifted between them back and forth as we head home. When the sun is just crossing the horizon, I am placed on the doorstep of my home and Stanley unceremoniously rings the doorbell. Exhausted, I am swept up in my mother's arms as tears stream down her face. Her beautiful brown eyes are overflowing, and I find myself crushed against her warm chest. Even my brother is on the verge of tears and he never cries over anything.

As I grow, I keep my imaginary friends close, unwilling to let them go as most children do. Stanley, Randall and Franco are more than just my imaginary friends. They're my saviors. I'll introduce them to my own children one day and in that way, I'll honor their sacrifice to help me in my deepest time of need. So, tonight when I lay down to sleep, I give them my dreams and my deepest gratitude, because without them, I'd not be the person I am today.

I didn’t tell anyone about them.

Not my parents, not the police officers who visited and asked gentle questions, not the counselor with the soft sweaters and softer voice. I only told Randall, Stanley, and Franco that I wouldn’t tell. They already knew, of course. They always knew.

Children are good at secrets, especially when the secret feels like the only thing that makes the world make sense.

For a while, life returned to normal. School, homework, arguments with my brother over the last cookie, my mother checking the locks on the doors twice instead of once. My father started driving me everywhere, even to places I could have walked. At night, they left the hallway light on.

I slept with Stanley in my arms, Randall sitting at the edge of my bed, and Franco somewhere under it, occasionally muttering jokes that only I could hear.

“You’re safe now,” Randall would say whenever I woke from a dream where the road went on forever and the lights outside the window never stopped passing.

“I know,” I’d whisper back, even when I wasn’t sure.

Years passed, the way years do—quietly at first, and then all at once.

When I was eight, my teacher asked the class to bring in our favorite toy for show-and-tell. I brought Stanley, of course. He was still the same impossible creature: shiny blue scales, mismatched dog legs, lion tail, flamingo head, and elephant ears pretending to be wings.

Mrs. Keller frowned when she saw him.

“That’s… very creative, Rina,” she said carefully. “Did you make this yourself?”

“No,” I answered, confused. “He came with me when I came home.”

The room went quiet in the way classrooms do when something slightly strange happens. I didn’t understand why until later.

Because my parents insisted they had never seen Stanley before the day I was found on the doorstep.

They said I hadn’t been holding anything.

They said I was alone.

But Stanley was heavy in my arms during show-and-tell, his scales cool and smooth under my fingers. When I squeezed him, I swear I felt a faint, steady thump—like a tiny, slow heartbeat.

That night, I asked Randall about it.

“Were you always here?” I whispered into the dark.

He didn’t answer right away. He rarely did when the question was important.

“We’re here when you need us,” he finally said. “That’s what matters.”

It wasn’t really an answer, but it was the only one I ever got.

By the time I turned twelve, the nightmares had mostly stopped. I could go days without thinking about the long car ride or the scratchy feeling in my throat when I first woke up and realized I wasn’t in my own bed.

But some things stayed.

Doors that should have been locked sometimes clicked open just as I reached them.

Bullies at school seemed to lose interest in me after a single sharp look over my shoulder, even though no one was ever there.

Once, when I got lost walking home at dusk, a tall shadow stretched ahead of me, leading the way down the right street until I could see my house again.

I never felt truly alone.

Not really.

When I was fifteen, I tried something I hadn’t dared to do before. I decided to pretend they weren’t real.

It sounds silly now, but it felt like a big, brave thing at the time. Grown-ups always talked about “outgrowing imaginary friends,” as if it was a badge of honor. I wanted to be brave. Normal. Sensible.

So that night, I tucked Stanley into the back of my closet. I ignored the faint, offended huff that sounded suspiciously like Franco. I lay in bed and stared at the ceiling.

“I’m fine,” I said out loud. “I don’t need you anymore.”

The room stayed quiet.

No voice from the edge of the bed. No soft shift of weight on the mattress. No rustle from beneath the frame.

For the first time in years, I truly was alone.

I didn’t sleep at all.

Every creak of the house sounded louder. Every shadow looked wrong. I kept thinking about the road, about strange hands offering me food and telling me everything would be okay. About how small I had felt, and how big the world had been without my friends beside me.

Sometime close to dawn, the closet door creaked open by itself.

I didn’t move. I didn’t even breathe.

Stanley tumbled out first, landing with a soft thud on the carpet. A moment later, the edge of the bed dipped as if someone had just sat down. Franco’s familiar voice whispered from below, “That was the worst comedy routine you’ve ever done.”

My chest loosened all at once, like a knot finally untying.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered.

“We know,” Randall replied gently.

I never tried to pretend again.

Now I’m older—much older than six, older than fifteen, older than I ever imagined being when I first clutched a juice box in the back seat of a stranger’s car and tried to be brave.

I have a home of my own. I have a child who insists there’s a funny monster under her bed who tells terrible jokes and makes sure the shadows behave themselves. She has a stuffed animal she swears she’s never seen in any shop, one with blue scales and a flamingo head and elephant ears that don’t really work as wings.

Sometimes, late at night, I pause outside her door and listen.

I hear giggling. Soft voices. The comforting murmur of someone telling her she’s safe.

I never go in to interrupt.

Instead, I lean against the wall and close my eyes, letting relief wash over me. Because whatever they are—imaginary, real, something in between—they’re still here.

They kept their promise.

And now, it seems, they’re keeping watch over the next little girl who might one day need them most.