Kim learned not to become attached to things, like a favorite toy or friends. At age 12 she understood that nothing is permanent.
“Kim,” her mother whispered urgently, “get your sister up and packed. We need to move right now. Don’t dawdle!”
It was the dead of night; it was always the dead of night, when Kim, her mother and younger sister would flee, slipping into the shadows until the next time they heard that “he” was getting too close.
“It’s for the best,” Kim told her tired, grumpy self, “but I miss home, wherever, whatever that is.”