The small New York park is rather empty, even for its size. There's a rickety slide with a roof and platform, the latter of which a young girl is determinedly attempting to reach as her mother stands watchfully beside the structure. Next to the slide is a small metal beam, complete with a boy perhaps a year younger than the girl sitting, swinging his legs. Further away from the slide and beam is a swing set, occupied by a boy of perhaps eight or nine years. Though the park is old and the sky is gray, there is still an aura of cheer, the kind of atmosphere one would expect from a playground. The only thing that could disrupt the photograph-esque scene is the bench, or, more accurately, the two teens on it. The boy is shifting, looking bored. The girl is bent over a notebook, a dark curtain of hair obscuring both its pages and her face.
"Why are you here?" The boy asks suddenly. Seeming surprised to be spoken to, the girl jerks up to look at him. He hurriedly alters his statement. "I mean, I'm here 'cause I'm watching my brother, Jared. He gestures to the boy on the swings. "Are you here for anyone?"
"I'm here to do homework. And to get away from my mom." The girl turns back to her notes, but this time, brushes her hair behind her ear.
"Does she… I mean, it's none of my business, but does she hurt you? Physically?" The boy sounds tentative, like he's afraid to overstep a boundary. Reasonable, considering the conversation.
"No. Not physically. But yours does." She looks back at him, the same solemn expression on her face.
"What? How did you-" He stutters, but why bother denying it? His father isn't here, and this girl has enough problems on her own. She's not going to care one way or the other.
"Your right shoulder. You're favoring it, and from the way it's resting you've probably suffered a partial dislocation recently. Your father, I'm guessing, based on your build and muscle. It would take a lot for someone to hurt you that badly." She's closed off and clinical as she rattle this off.
"You're smart," is all he can think to say.
"I have to be, to get out of here, don't I?" She asks.
He nods. "I'm Seeley," he offers. "But my friends call me Booth."
"Cam." She responds. "Well, Camille, but I hate that name." He doesn't ask. She doesn't elaborate. They sit in silence.