Sarah studies Zelda’s face, the slight frown lines around her mouth and the line between her eyes that’s deeper than it should be for someone her age. Teardrops cling to her eyelashes like dew on grass on a summer morning. Zelda’s olive skin clashes with her reddened cheeks on a thin face cloaked by untamed curly black hair. “You’re beautiful,” she says. “And nothing’s the matter with you. You’re fucking beautiful, you understand me?”
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