Lorelai Gilmore padded silently down the steps of her home. Her feet were shoe-less but her white cotton tights that her mother made her wear in winter kept her warm and allowed her to walk silently down the stairs. The shiny wooden floor beneath her presented a problem though. It was slippy. At any normal time, nothing would've given Lorelai greater joy than to slide across the floor in her stockings, pretending she was ice skating at Central Park. But it was too late for that now. Everyone was asleep. Central Park ice skating would have to wait.
When she reached the bottom of the stairs, she looked around cautiously. She wasn't worried about her parents. They had gone to bed hours ago. It was more that the maid might still be here cleaning. But it was deathly silent. That was the thing about the Gilmore house, it was almost always deathly silent. That's why Lorelai felt the need to fill it with noise during the day. She hugged her backpack to her chest and continued on her mission.
She reached the front door and pried it open quietly. The deep, dark coldness of the outside felt like it was trying to swallow her. That was okay. Lorelai wanted to be swallowed up.
She slipped on a pair of her dad's shoes, the ones he worked on cars in, and took a big, brave step outside. It really was freezing. She reversed back into the house and looked around desperately for something that might keep her warm. She was only in her little white cotton dress from the evening before. Her eyes scanned the coat rack until she found a sweater of her father's. His favorite one. Lorelai didn't know what it was made of but it was very soft and very expensive and he loved it. Probably more than he loved her, Lorelai thought. She pulled it off the rack and wrapped it around her shoulders. It was massive on her, but that could work.
She was about to step outside again when a light caught her eye. She turned around sharply to face it, expecting to be in so much trouble. She looked towards the office, where the light was coming from. Her father was stood in the doorway. He looked like he'd just woken up from sleeping at his desk, his hair all messy and his day clothes all ruffled. He was holding a bottle of PVA glue.
Lorelai looked at the table behind him. Her dollhouse, which she'd shoved over in a fit of anger was sat on the table behind him, halfway through repair.
To Richard, this scene was obvious. His little daughter stood by the open front door in his cashmere sweater and boots clutching a pink backpack. He watched her carefully, not saying a word.
Lorelai dithered on the doorstep. She could make a run for it. He would never catch her, she was much, much quicker than him. But with the too-big boots, she'd probably trip. She took one more look at the dollhouse and closed the front door gently. She carefully removed her dad's sweater and shoes and padded back upstairs.
That was attempt number one. She was six.