Chloe was kneeling in the dirt behind the house, beside an old washing basin, picking broken pieces of a shattered plate up off the ground with trembling fingers.

She was painfully thin.

Her clothes hung off her like they belonged to someone twice her size.

And she wore a thick knitted cap pulled down low, despite the heat of the afternoon.

From the open back window, my younger sister Brenda’s voice cut across the yard, loud and full of contempt, saying something cruel about the bald woman not showing her face while there were guests in the house.

Chloe froze.