Wheeling Gull Isle your whole life is in the hands of God

A voice. 
Her little head swivels around in every which way in search of it, until her eyes land upon the sleepless figure: Uncle Ev. 
She shuffles, straightening up her back and hiding her sniffle behind a swipe of her paw over her nose. She tries to ignore the sand particles she could now smell and taste at the same time. 
Normally, that would have made her laugh. But today was not a day for laughter. 
He asks her whether she is searching for gifts for her brothers. Wearily, she shakes her head no, and before she even realizes, she is in shambles. Her wails are quiet and steal all the air from her lungs, the gasping kind of sob where the only sounds are heaves. The kind of sob where she feels as if she is drowning. 
Mama an' Daddy don't love me-e-e-e! And what she wanted to do was go on a tangent; the babies are demons, Uncle Ev, they're demons! They stole my parents! They stole you! They stole my brothers! Demons! Demons! Demons! But that is not what she does. She is pitiful, truly, merely a puddle that still held the russet stripe between her ears. I miss the-e-em!