“My mom works nights,” the girl said, unprompted. “She says the apartment doesn’t feel small when she’s sleeping. Only when she’s awake. So I come here after school sometimes. The shrine lady gives me senbei.”
She nodded, as if that was the right answer. Then she let go of my hand, picked up her knapsack, and started down the steps. At the second landing, she stopped and looked back.
“I’m scared my mom will work herself into nothing,” Hana said, not looking at me. “And then I’ll be really alone. Not just ‘ohitori.’ The other one.”
She was maybe twelve, thirteen at most. Hair tucked behind one ear, a canvas knapsack slipping off her shoulder. She held a half-melted lollipop, green stick, like a conductor’s baton she’d forgotten how to use.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
Drainage Somerset