In London, at 16 Poppleton Circle, Becca sat up in her bed, crying. Mrs. Daniels passed her room and heard her sniffling. She slipped into her room.
“What’s the matter, Becca? What’s wrong?”
“My mother and Baby Lilly.”
Mrs. Daniels nodded and sat beside Becca, trying to comfort the poor girl. “You miss them. I know.”
Becca shook her head. “It’s not that.”
“What is it, then?” Mrs. Daniels asked, patting her back.
“I can’t remember their faces anymore,” Becca said, whispering her horrifying confession.
Mrs. Daniels put her big wobbling arms around the sassy little refugee and hugged her tightly. “Not to worry, my little lass. God watches over all of us.”
“I don’t think God can see us anymore.”
Over Becca’s shoulder, the tough lady from Swansea closed her eyes, and a tear squeezed out. “No, no, he sees you for sure.”
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