She was thirteen and sweet as all hell. Her skin glowed unblemished, as yet untrodden by greasy teenage hormones. She had on liquid eyeliner; straight across her lids, with the points to either side, implying eyelashes made of obsidian, chipped razor sharp. And her smile was delicate; lined with the mocha brown, only slightly smeared into her lipgloss like a coloring book drawing of a flower; the outer edges too hard, and yet still tender by way of contrast, a toddler in its fathers T-shirt. I didn’t expect her to speak English; but she understood me quite well, and her Spanish accent was so light that it only added to the sense of purity she still had around her; a mysterious lilt a halo to her voice, the drifting ghost of a first communion dress. Settled in the groove at the base of her slender neck she had a bright rhinestone pendant; a playboy bunny, the sliver paint new enough to not yet have begun chipping off. And her red shirt draped over her six month stretched belly like a tablecloth over a rock for a little girls’ tea party. She was so young that I couldn't even offer her help.