thirteen
Kim had planned to get some sleep on the plane, but with the dream-eater reading quietly in the other seat, it was unsurprisingly hard to get any rest. She had shoved some more inconspicuous clothes at the girl, a pair of her own jeans and a bulky sweatshirt that didn’t quite fit, but it was impossible to hide those scars on her face and hands, and the miles of chestnut-colored hair remained impossibly long, even when tightly braided. They had given up on winding the braid into a bun; it had wound up and wound up until it covered most of the back of the girl’s head, and she complained that her neck was getting stiff.
It was all very weird. Jadwiga had shown her the marks on her chest, scars that had gone gray and transparent like rivulets of water running through the surface of
