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Summary
Ghost had brought the photo in front of his own face, fixing his eyes on the portrayed subject: a little girl who could not have been more than 15 years old, her hair down and a very sweet smile showing her slightly crossed incisors.
Immediately he was back to being a little boy himself, with his mind back to the summer when that picture was taken, in the heat of suburban Manchester.
He was a skinny little boy who was always hunched over at the time, bent almost in on himself, his skin darkened by bruises and abrasions left by that beast of a father, and a look that could not be called anything but dead.
A dog that didn't bark, it just bit.
Everyone except her. She had found him one day slowly dragging himself away from his home, bleeding from his nose and lower lip, and without asking permission or anything she had grabbed him, pulling him by the wrist until she dragged him into the apartment where she lived with her parents.