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

They allow her to stay; they approve of Dinah in their bicolored chaotic glory, even if it was not meant to last.
Hammering breath comes to a slow calm as the dark spiral of Ava curls central to the three girls. Quiet, still, Dinah struggles with the urge to comfort, wrestling with herself in such a way—
Her tongue passes over her lips as one seabrine arm loops over the backs of both younger siblings. I am here, says the gesture; and I love you despite myself.
The pieces don't fit together, and Dinah knows this. But for now she can pretend that they do.