At the end of the day, a girl is dead. Maybe it’s winter. Maybe she had a black ski hat on. Maybe she was running and didn’t stop when he ordered her to. Maybe because she had headphones in, so she didn’t hear him shouting. Maybe she was late for something. Or maybe she was running simply because it was cold and dark and she was nervous to be alone on the street. It was dusky already at four-thirty p.m. When the lights flashed behind her, maybe it didn’t seem unusual. Maybe she never imagined it was about her. She was tall for her age, bundled in her warmest coat. She looked bigger than she was. Thicker. More like a man, an adult. But still thirteen years old.