Storme would never remember it except as a feeling. Very bright light would remind her of something of the agony. She couldn’t cry out and expel any of the pain because there was something in her throat. She wanted to pull it out, but she couldn’t move her arms. A woman’s voice called her name. Storme opened her eyes and the light was like the sun. The voice murmured to her and she felt herself being touched and wanted to cry out again and pull away. Pictures came inside her head. She saw granddad’s dog, Brandy, the door to the living room where the paint had bubbled, the pavement outside a shop, her mother’s face and the red boots, and her father’s face, and the window near her cot at home, and the bright colours of the television screen she sat in front of for most of the day and night. She heard echoing metal noises and softer shushing sounds. Helped by the maximum amount of pain-killers allowed to a child of her age and weight, she sank into a deeper unconsciousness. Imperceptibly her body started to recover from the iniquitous acts that had been done to it and began to heal.