Number the Stars by Lois Lowry

raised its head and yawned. It pried itself out of Kirsti’s arms, stretched, and then jumped lightly to the floor and came to Annemarie. It rubbed itself against her leg and purred.
    Kirsti sighed and turned in her sleep; one arm, free now of the kitten’s warmth and comfort, flung itself across the pillow.
    There was no one else in the wide bed.
    Annemarie moved quickly to the window, which overlooked the clearing that led to the path’s entrance. The light outside was still very dim, and she peered through the dimness, trying to see, looking for the opening in the trees where the path began, looking for Mama hurrying home.
    After a second she saw a shape there: something unfamiliar, something that had not been there the day before. A dark shape, no more than a blurred heap, at the beginning of the path. Annemarie squinted, forcing her eyes to understand, needing to understand, not wanting to understand.
    The shape moved. And she knew. It was her mother, lying on the earth.

13
Run! As Fast As You Can!
    Still moving quietly so as not to wake her sister, Annemarie sped down the stairs and through the kitchen door. Her foot caught the loose step and she faltered for a moment, righting herself, then dashed across the ground to the place where her mother lay.
    â€œMama!” she called desperately, “Mama!”
    â€œShhh,” Mama said, raising her head. “I’m all right!”
    â€œBut, Mama,” Annemarie asked, kneeling beside her, “what’s wrong? What happened?”
    Her mother pulled herself to a sitting position. She winced in pain. “I’m all right, really. Don’t worry. And the Rosens are with Henrik. That’s the important thing.”
    She smiled a little, though her face was drawn with pain and she bit her lip, the smile fading. “We got there quite quickly, even though it was still so dark and it was difficult for the Rosens, not knowing the path. Henrik was there waiting, on the boat, and he took them aboard and down below so quickly to the cabin that they were invisible in an instant. He said the others were already there; Peter got them there safely, too.
    â€œSo I turned and hurried home. I was so anxious to get back to you girls. I should have been more careful.” Talking softly, she brushed some grass and dirt from her hands.
    â€œCan you believe it? I was very nearly here—well, maybe just halfway—when I tripped over a root and went sprawling.”
    Mama sighed. “So clumsy,” she said, as if she were scolding herself. “I’m afraid my ankle is broken, Annemarie. Thank goodness it is nothing worse. An ankle mends. And I am home, and the Rosens are with Henrik.
    â€œYou should have seen me, Annemarie,” she said, shaking her head with a wry look. “Your proper mama, crawling inch by inch! I probably looked like a drunkard!”
    She reached for Annemarie’s arm. “Here, let me lean on you. I think if you support me on this side, I can make my way up to the house. Goodness, what a clumsy fool I am! Here, let me put my arm over your shoulders. You’re such a good, strong, brave girl. Now—very slowly. There.”
    Mama’s face was white with pain. Annemarie could see it even through the faint light of the approaching dawn. She hobbled, leaning heavily on her daughter, pausing again and again, toward the house.
    â€œWhen we get inside, I’ll have a cup of tea and then we’ll call the doctor. I’ll tell him that I fell on the stairs. You’ll have to help me wash away the grass and twigs. Here, Annemarie, let me rest for a minute.”
    They had reached the house, and Mama sank down to the steps and sat. She took several deep breaths.
    Annemarie sat beside her and held her hand. “Mama, I was so worried when you didn’t come back.”
    Mama nodded. “I knew you would be. I thought of you, worrying, as I dragged myself along. But here I am—safe with