Northstar Vale a manager at a comic book store

back in her first year, her mother used to brush her hair with long, smooth strokes of her hand. before they cut off her fingers. before they cut off her nose. and before the flow of refugee asylum seekers turned to a roaring river. 
only so much you could do for hundreds of people who had family-shaped holes in their lives. and now she was one of them: entering a train station you've never seen with the panic coming on strong. wondering if you should buy another ticket?

up ahead, there's a small white and unfamiliar face. one day if she stays here, she'll be able to recognise her skull from a mile away. just by the shape of the bones. this realisation is unsettling, yet comforting. like watching your face in the mirror change every day bit by bit. millimetre by millimetre.

"good morning," her voice, soft but rusty from recent sleep, scares a nearby bird. she watches it fly away, all crooked and clumsy.