That is why she hoarded crackers, and checked the tub at midnight, and drew a refrigerator at the center of her world.

She was not being strange.

She was trying, in the only language her wound understood, to rebuild the shattered foundation, to reassure herself, over and over, that the food was there, that she was safe, that someone had come.

And that is why the strawberries mattered so much, that ordinary afternoon in the courtyard, a child eating fruit from a bowl without fear.

It was not about the strawberries.