Picture me last Wednesday, on my cot, in my hut, slumped against the wall, knees clasped to my chest. I'd been crying, again, and my eyes were puffy, but I'd finally stopped. Instead, in the rising light of dawn, I'd stared at what I'd written on the wall, next to the green and gold bird mask from the ball that is the hut's only other decoration.
(
How Polly Learned to Accept and Deal. )