The little girl grew older and her classes changed.
Sometimes the white coats would interrupt a lesson to ask her questions she didn't understand.
Other times they would give her puzzles, ask her riddles, have her listen to a story while she was hooked up to a strange machine.
None of it made any sense to her.
No one bothered to explain.
During one of her rare meals with her mother the little girl asked what the point was.
Her mother paused her eating, examined the little girl for a moment and replied.
"They're tests."
The little girl took in every detail of her mother.
The tight expression, the soft lines between her eyes, the elegant way her hands gripped her silverware.
The little girl wished for a moment that she was sick again so she could feel those hands slipping gently over her forehead.
"Why do I need to be tested?" She asked softly, eyes dropping to the table in front of her.
The little girl heard rather than saw her mother resume eating, her silverware clinking musically against her plate.
"Life tests us all, Ada," Her mother replied. "In one form or another."