She had a serious face, older than seven around the eyes, and when she spoke she spoke carefully, in the deliberate way of a child who has repeated a sentence to herself the whole walk over so she would not lose it.

“My name is Junia,” she said.

“This is my sister, Livia.

We’re twins.” She glanced at the other girl, who had lowered herself down beside the counter with her knees drawn up and both arms wrapped around her middle.

“Our daddy said Livia would just feel sleepy.

But she says it hurts.