I see her there, looking up at me. So small, so vulnerable. Her hoodie hides almost all of her, but I think I see signs of bruising on her cheeks.

She wants to talk. She asks me if I will listen.

“Yes,” I tell her. “Yes, I will listen.” I take her aside, gently, pull her into the shadows with me to find a place where we might speak safely. There are people who watch in the light. People who hurt other people.

But in the shadows is solace and safety. In this other world, we can hide from the people who hunt and hurt us. People who do not either talk or listen. People who only live.

I see that they have had their way with her already. I can tell from the way she winces as I accidentally touch a bruise when I take her arm. Her soul is damaged—like mine. I sense it as like calls to like.

But at last we are safe, down in the warren of ladders and tunnels and torches and ropes and chasms and bridges to confuse and confound pursuers.

Now I kneel before her and ask her, “Will you talk to me?”