The desert wind, dry and relentless, whispered through the sparse, thorny bushes outside the window. Bryony Adams, a wisp of a girl with eyes too old for her frame, adjusted her knee socks, a small, almost imperceptible tremor running through her fingers. It was a familiar feeling, this shiver, like the brush of unseen wings.

She dragged her worn backpack towards Mrs. Lopez's desk, the vibrant orange poster on the wall, a guide to shoe-tying, mocking her with its simple certainty. Bryony knew how to double knot, a small victory hard-won. Now, she wrestled with the elusive eighties in her counting, a mental labyrinth far more complex than any knot.

“I made you a present, Mrs. Lopez,” she announced, her voice a soft melody against the low hum of the classroom. Mrs. Lopez, with her kind, tired eyes, offered a gentle smile.

“Oh, did you? What a sweet girl you are. What did you make?”

Bryony pulled the offering from her bag: a bookmark, crude but heartfelt, a crayon Mrs. Lopez with purple hair and a star on her shoulder, painstakingly drawn. As Mrs. Lopez clutched the girl, feeling the fragility of her bones, a silent plea echoed in her mind: Run away, little girl. Run from everything that is going to befall you. Just run, Bryony. Run.

What she said aloud was, “It’s very beautiful, Bryony. I have a special fondness for purple sequins, too.”