twelve-year-old sherry birkin sat with you and claire outside the mall’s pretzel shop, her legs swinging beneath the table as she sipped her lemonade, looking up at you.

you’d never thought you’d be sitting side by side with a motorcyclist and a seventh grader after escaping raccoon city.

“do you like your pretzels, sherry?” claire asked gently. sherry nodded, swallowing.

“m-hm,” sherry said, looking from you to claire, then back to you, like she didn’t know what to say.