At the table, something felt off. She didn’t eat like most kids. No rushing, no second helpings, no chatter between bites. Everything was measured. One scoop of rice. One piece of chicken. Two carrots.
And she watched everything—every movement, every sound—like she was expecting something to go wrong.
I felt it instantly. That quiet shift in the room when something isn’t right.
Dan tried to ease the tension.
“So, Lizie, how long have you known Sam?”
“Since last year,” she said softly.
Sam jumped in quickly. “She’s the fastest runner in class. Doesn’t even complain.”
That earned a brief smile but it faded quickly.
Continue on the next page:
