Her name was Maggie Pricill, and just like the mothers or fathers standing in front of the building, her life revolved around finding justice for her little girl.
From her face, Avond could see traces of Naiomi's or Sarafina's face. She just looked older, with a thicker hint of foreign blood, leaving behind traces of her glory days—like a flower past its full bloom.
She would have still looked stunning, if the harshness of life hadn't eaten away at her like a corrosion.
There were heavy sleeping bags under her eyes, her mouth in a permanent frown, her eyes red, and her body skinny. Avond had no idea how long she'd been on a hunger strike, but it seemed a gust of wind could topple her over.
So he didn't blame her for being so harsh or rude.
"I know you're on a hunger strike, but can we maybe find a warm place to discuss the matter?" Avond asked, digging his fists deeper into his pockets.
Maggie thought about it.
