A/N: Since I thought it would be more realistic for a four-year-old to speak with improper grammar, I added a few mistakes in intentionally.

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Things were 'normal' for four years, or what ever "normal" could possibly be. She learned to talk, crawl, and walk- just like any other infant. She even had time to play, and go to the park.

She was four, and while she was a joy to her parents, they could not have possibly expected what those tiny, dividing cells would turn out to be like. She was fiery and opinionated, and made it well-known that she would rather walk around naked. There had already been several incidents of trying to take her clothes off in public places, especially at the beach. Brooke and Michael joked to each other that that meant nothing about her future life. Luckily, at the park, she seemed to forget that she was wearing clothes.

"Moooom!" she practically sang, running from the hop-scotch she'd made with green chalk; "can I play with my bubbles now?" she smiled a warm, sunny, innocent smile only seen in a girl her age; it was impossible not to smile back.

"Sure." she said, handing up the pink, dolphin-shaped bubbles. "Try not to spill them this time?"

"Okay!" she half-giggled, taking the container of semi-slippery bubbles.

"Hang on," her dad called, grabbing the container of sunblock; "you might want to put some of this on again so you don't burn."

"Awww." she sighed, setting down the botle. "Do I have to?" another well-known fact; Remy Michelle Hadley despised sunblock. It got in her mouth and left an icky taste, it felt weird on her body, and- most of all- it kept her from playing with bubbles (or whatever else she wanted to do, for that matter).

Her dad just nodded and knealt down so he was about her height. Most of the time, he put it on her- it was too hard for her to do, and it was boring. He did have her apply it to the areas deep inside the openings of the sleeves in her peppermint-striped sundress. It kinda tickled, so it was okay.

"Now," he put his hand on her head gently; "you can go back and play."

She ran off, grabbing the bubbles and semi-twirling all the way back up to where she'd made the hop-scotch. Her parents had never seen a four-year-old who was so content to play by herself. She did okay with other kids, but was just...happy alone. Some times there was an imaginary friend, like one called "Candle" that she said slept next to her when the power went out or when it stormed (of course, she said it in four-year-old language). Or the cat that liked to watch TV with her. When her mom asked her why she wanted to play alone so much, she simply told her;

"Because then other kids don't bug me to do what they wanna do."

At least the girl was honest.

As the dark-haired little girl drew pictures in the sidewalk, she seemed to be talking. Whether it was to herself or to an imaginary friend, her parents didn't know. Curiously, Michael walked over near her, and sat with his legs half-bent.

"Who are you talking to?"

"Mint." she said, drawing big circles then looking the other way; "Like that?"

"Who's Mint?"

"Mint is the cat what watched TV with me."

"Is he really green, or do you just want to use that chalk?" he asked, this time with a bit more humor.

"He's green. That's why his name is Mint. His mommy said; 'he's green, so that should be his name.'" she drew a loop where the tail would be, and added a paw at the tip.

"And what about daddy?"

"It was one of the names his daddy liked." she responded, matter-of-factly. "His mom wouldn't name him some thing his dad didn't like." Remy stroked the sidewalk, as though she were some how petting the critter through the outline. "D'ya know why he's green?"

"No, I don't." he replied. "Why is he green?"

"'Cause his mom was yellow," she pointed to a picture of a similar-looking yellow "cat", "and his dad was blue." she pointed the other direction to a blue cat. "And they're aliens. His mom is from the planet Sun and his dad is from the planet Moon." because, of course, to a four-year-old, the sun and moon are planets.

"So where is he from?" Her dad decided not to correct her; she wouldn't understand any ways.

"Earth." she replied, giggling. "If he wasn't from Earth, he can't watch TV with me."

And it happened then. A screaming fit, right from where her mom was. Concerned, she got up, but her dad put a hand in front of her to keep her from moving.

Brooke got up, screaming profanities, and suddenly punched a tree.

"What's wrong?!" the four year old squealed, herself beginning to cry, unsure of what was happening.

"I...I don't know." he said, then warning; "Stay here."

"Daddy?!" she panicked, hyperventilating. To a four year old, this was scary- somehow petrifying, though there was usually not a specific end result in mind- not until they get older. She went to run, when her mind reeled out a kind, familiar voice;

"He told you to stay."

Candle. Remy breathed deeply and grabbed at the air, grasping tightly onto what would be his hand. If Candle was here, every thing would be alright.

But that was only one in a long series of events...and, at the end of them, she would soon find out, that every thing would not be alright.

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Michael took Brooke to the doctor later that week. Remy stayed with her Aunt Claire. Aunt Clair was nice and Uncle Rick was funny. He had a gray beard with little bits of brown, and his hair was all gray. It felt like a puppy; she liked to touch it in any way possible. Aunt Claire baked cookies and they went to the playground. It was different from the park, it had monkey bars and a slide and a sandbox. The park just had swings and a place to ride bikes and draw. There used to be a slide, but it broke. She played in the sandbox, even though she couldn't build very much without water.

By the 2:00pm, Uncle Rick had to carry her home because she had almost fallen asleep on their picnic blanket. She was too tired to touch his beard. He took her to Aunt Claire's house and she slept on the couch while they watched courtroom TV shows that were boring, any ways.

The four-year-old woke up teary-eyed at 3:30, but couldn't remember what had upset her. She was scared but didn't know why. Uncle Rick sat her in his lap and let her play with his beard. Aunt Claire let her watch cartoons. She didn't wonder for more than a second why her parents acted so differently before she was distracted by a chocolate chip cookie. Cookies needed her full attention more than her thoughts, so she quickly forgot it.

Mommy and Daddy came to pick her up soon. Concerned, the four year old gave her mother a hug and said;

"Are you okay now? Did the doctor make you feel better?" and, with the palm of her hand, touched her mom's forehead.

"The doctor gave me medicine," she replied; "like when you get sick. The medicine will make me better."

Relieved, though no one knew quite of what, the four-year-old threw her arms around her mother. Then the four adults sat down on the couch and talked. Remy sat at the table and drew pictures.

"They're very good," her mother said, looking at them all. "I'll have to hang them on the fridge when we get home."

She sat in mommy's lap. "I wanna be an artist." she announced in her child-like manner. "I wanna draw and color in stuff."

"That sounds fun," her dad responded, reclining in the chair. "You can be whatever you want to be when you grow up."

And right then, she wanted to be an artist.

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A/N: Admit it. Little Thirteen + cookies = the most adorable thing you've ever imagined. I actually didn't know until I was writing this that she wanted to be an artist at four, I had thought astronaut. But you know how fickle children are, one minute an astronaut and the next a gardener and the next an artist :)