Wheeling Gull Isle Look monsieur, where all the children play.

Do something.
Her mother's teachings soar in her mind's eye. Strive for good. Do what is right. Trust in God. Violence is never the answer.
John worships God; a holy man, he is, and the youngest of Sweetharbor boil with blood stained black. Ana struck first, as far as she knew. Ana was the perpetrator; she did this to herself.
But where was God right now? Where was He when John swung at Ana? Where was He when Ava, Ava, of all souls, came to her aid? Prayer would not stop this. No, prayer would be no help as the skid of scarlet across the sand below blooms bright.
Never, never should man lay hands on child. Or more importantly, never should man lay hands on Dinah's sister.
The simple shining concept of goodness did not matter as Dinah threw herself into the fray. Teeth churning together, grinding, she attempts to wriggle between Ava and John — herself, a shield, a barrier; her goal being for any of John's retaliations to strike her skin and not that of Ava's.