Soon we are both seated on the ground, with a bowl of salad each. Callie's adoptive father never eats; well, at least, not in front of us. Callie hasn't spoken a word, and though she  isn't you regular chatterbox, she's unusually quiet. I pat her back.

What's the matter, Cal? I prod. No reply. You can tell me.

"People are... talking about me. Saying things."

Would you like me to go and, like, kick their ass?

"Ha ha."

I wasn't kidding.

"Really, it's fine."

It was not. When she turned away, I could have sworn a tear glistened on her cheek.