The news that my sister had been killed in a traffic accident was hard to take. But even harder was to walk into the police station to pick up my niece, her daughter.

Sarah sat in a stiff-back plastic chair, her hair disheveled and her clothes torn and dirty. A bottle of spring water and a sandwich sat on the table next to her, untouched. An officer sat across the room, quietly.

Both occupants of the room looked over as a sergeant let me into the room. But before he could announce me or get a word out, Sarah leapt to her feet and launched herself at me like a bullet leaving a gun.

“Uncle Dan!” she screamed as her slight body slammed into me. Her face burrowing into my chest as her arms wrapped around my thick body. Then she began to cry.

“This is the first time she’s done or said anything,” the young officer that had been sitting with her said. “We tried to make her comfortable.”

I waved his words away. “Thank you for trying.” I said. “My sister’s death is a shock to the whole family,” at that, Sarah began wailing into my chest again.

“Sir, I just need to verify your identification,” the sergeant said. “Then you can take your niece home,” he moved to my side as I drew my wallet out, still holding Sarah to me with one arm.

“Paramedics cleared her, medically at the scene.” He looked over my driver’s license and scanned it with his phone. “The dash-cam footage told us the rest.” Then he handed me back my license.

“Thank you for looking after Sarah,” I said, looking from the young rookie to the sergeant. “It’s going to be rough, but we’ll make it.” I began walking Sarah out of the station, and the sergeant made one final comment.

“I’ll have an officer drop off our sister’s personal effects after the case closes.” I nodded and thanked him. Then we were gone.

My name is Daniel Fisk. A small-time realtor in the suburbs of Los Angeles. My sister Linda was a sales rep for a steel firm in the industrial sector. L.A. traffic is the worst, and now my sister was another statistic.

Our parents live in Florida. Retired and part of the South Beach crowd of retirees. We decided not to have them come back to California. No point. I told them I would take care of Sarah.

Arrangements were made to ship Linda’s ashes to them after a small service here. Small keepsake ornaments with some of her ashes were made for each of us. I had now become my niece’s guardian.

Sarah is a good girl. A student with a 4.0 grade average in high school. And much to my initial dismay, I found her quite attractive for a 16-year-old.

After she cleaned up from the accident, I couldn’t keep my eyes off of her.

Sarah isn’t tall, by any means. Only 5 feet 1 inch. A tiny thing next to my 6-foot-3-inch height. She weighed only 80 or 90 pounds soaking wet, but her body was firm and toned.

She participated in track and field at school, so she had that runner’s body. Small breasts and narrow hips, but a shapely ass. Right now, she was not as bright and cheerful as usual, but she was still lovely.

Her long, chestnut-colored hair framed her face beautifully, and she never wanted to tie it back or have it cut. She took pride in her hair. Now, after her shower at my modest house, she looked more human, more herself.