I sit on the bus, heading home, fix my skirt. She’s fourteen, maybe. Possibly pretty behind the screaming makeup, the too-heavy clothing. She stretches overhead, hands gripping metal bars for balance.
The long sleeves of her sweatshirt edge down. I see them. Scars. Red. Angry. Recent.
I hesitate, then turn my palms heavenward. Wrinkles and time half hide the deep cuts that cross my own wrists.
She glances down, lets out a gasp.
We reach her stop. Unsummoned, I follow.
Crossing into a park, she takes a seat.
I’m old. I know what to do.
I sit beside her.