She rapidly became bored with each toy, but one little gadget held her attention. It was a tiny village immersed in a globe of water. There were tiny people in there, frozen in mid-step as they walked, or ran, through their world. When her awkward hands shook the globe, plastic snowflakes would swirl through the air, settling over the encased streets and rooftops. She stared at the entombed villagers, wishing she could become one of them: become frozen in time as they were, free of this pressure of growing.

On the fifth day she was taken to a wide, irregularly shaped, sunlight drenched classroom. This room was full of children — other children! The children sat on the floor and played with paints and dolls, or talked earnestly to brilliantly colored Virtual figures — smiling birds, tiny clowns.

The children turned to watch as she came in with her mother, their faces round and bright, like dapples of sunlight through leaves. She’d never been so close to other children before. Were these children different too?

One small girl scowled at her, and Lieserl quailed against her mother’s legs. But Phillida’s familiar warm hands pressed into her back. “Go ahead. It’s all right.”

As she stared at the unknown girl’s scowling face, Lieserl’s questions, her too-adult, too-sophisticated doubts, seemed to evaporate. Suddenly, all that mattered to her — all that mattered in the world — was that she should be accepted by these children: that they wouldn’t know she was different.

An adult approached her: a man, young, thin, his features bland with youth. He wore a jumpsuit colored a ludicrous orange; in the sunlight, the glow of it shone up over his chin. He smiled at her. “Lieserl, isn’t it? My name’s Paul. We’re glad you’re here. Aren’t we, people?”

He was answered by a rehearsed, chorused “Yes”.

“Now come and we’ll find something for you to do,” Paul said.