She sits in the back of the truck on top of the crate of crisp apples. Her hand sneaks in to grab around the smooth, hard surface. "Azalea. Put that down," the woman in red and yellow admonishes her. She looks at the woman, seeing the hair that looks like molten gold flowing down her back, identical to the hair Azalea has pulled away from her face. Her deep, black, seemingly soulless eyes stare into her mothers crisp blue ones, as the slightly older woman hears a sharp crunch coming from across the truck. The mother huffs at her daughter, and she responds with a laugh back at her with puffy cheeks. She inhales sharply as the truck begins to rumble beneath her. The laughter in her throat disappears as she begins to move. The crisp apple turns to ash in her mouth and bile threatens to rise. The drive to her school that day seems to go on forever, she has retreated so far inside herself that the normally long drive is already over. Her feet are leaden as she walks into the building.