She looked up when Sky entered. Her eyes were red from crying.
“I’m not supposed to talk to anyone,” the girl said in a small, flat voice.
“I’m Sky,” Sky said softly. “I’m seven.”
The girl hesitated.
“I’m Eloin,” she said finally. “I’m eight.”
“You look sad,” Sky said.
Eloin looked down.
“I’m not supposed to be seen,” she said.
“Everybody should be seen,” Sky replied.
For a moment, something flickered across Eloin’s face. It looked like hope.
Sky noticed the way Eloin kept rubbing her head, fingers hovering over certain spots as if checking whether they still hurt.
“Does it hurt?” Sky asked.
Eloin froze. Her breathing hitched.
“A little,” she whispered.
“Can I look?”
Eloin started to answer, but heavy footsteps thundered down the hall.
“Sky!” her mother called.
Miss Calva appeared in the doorway, fury carved into every line of her face.
“What do you think you’re doing?” she snapped.
“She looked sad,” Sky tried.
“You are not here to make friends,” Miss Calva said sharply. “Do not come back to this room. Ever.”
Sky stepped back, but as she left, she glanced at Eloin one more time.
Eloin’s lips moved.
Help.