On Lucy’s ninth birthday, a new child was born in the vault. Everyone instantly began to dote on him, instead of her. She had to share her birthdays from then on. At nine years old, she thought her birthday couldn’t get any worse.

Yet here she was. Caked in dirt and sand and blood -- hers, someone else's, even she didn’t know. No cake. No presents. Not even anyone to steal the spotlight from her. Because there was no spotlight.

She stared at the pip-boy as the date changed in the blink of an eye. Midnight. Her birthday.