The King doubles over from the force of the girl’s fist burying itself in his stomach, gasping for breath. It’s satisfying, seeing him like that—almost as though, for a moment, he’s bowing to her. The moment ends quickly as the King calls for his loyal guards, who descend like a pack of vultures.

The girl would like it noted that she holds her own better this time. She manages to hit one of the boys over the head with her backpack, and she kicks gravel from the road into the face of another.

Someone manages to strike the girl in the back, and someone else yanks on her hair hard enough to make her eyes water. She raises her arms to protect her face—her anger calming enough to make her realize just how vastly outnumbered she is.

She ducks under the swing of one boy, sidesteps a kick from another, and then runs as fast as she can. The King shouts in anger, but the girl doesn’t stop, tearing down the street and around the corner. She’s not sure if they’re chasing her—doesn’t bother to look behind her as she takes a familiar path home.

She’s passing the strange woman’s house when a voice calls to her. “Hey!”

The girl turns her head, surprised to see the strange woman descending the front steps of her building.

“You’ve gotten yourself into trouble again, I see,” the woman says and it’s the girl’s first time hearing her voice. It’s deeper than expected, with a rasp. Like woodsmoke or gravel or Foster Mother Four, never without a cigarette in her hand. But there is warmth in this woman’s voice.

The girl opens her mouth, ready to offer a dismissal. But the woman beckons her closer with a flick of her hand. “Come on,” she says. “I have a first aid kit.”

The girl hesitates, but only for a moment. The woman’s smile is kind, and the girl’s cheeks and arms hurt from the fight.

“Okay,” she mumbles and shuffles after the woman, towards the stoop of her building.

As the woman opens the door, the King and his posse materialize like demons, turning the corner onto the girl’s street.

“There she is!” The King yells, pointing a finger.

The girl curls her hands into fists. She’s ready to stand and fight again, if need be, because running away twice isn’t acceptable. But her neighborhood ghost steps forward, shielding the girl from the approaching boys.

“You boys should go home,” her ghost says, crossing muscled arms over her chest. The King is nearly as tall as her, and he sneers.

“Get out of the way, lady.”

An arched eyebrow. “Or what?”

This seems to take the King by surprise. He blinks for a moment, then squares his shoulders, puffing up like a proud bird. “Or I’ll make you.”

The ghost cocks her head to the side. The girl can’t really see her expression, but her tone is amused when she says, “You’d really beat up an old woman?”

“I won’t have to if you move,” the King fires back. “That brat started this.”

“Sorry,” the ghost says, mild. “She’s under my protection.”

The King loses his patience, lunging forward with a snarl, and the woman…moves. Like lightning, like a flicker—so fast and fluid that the girl almost can’t track it with her eyes. Suddenly, between one blink and the next, she’s behind the King, twisting his arm behind his back. He gasps, eyes wide and mouth open in shock.

“I think,” the woman says, as though she was commenting on the weather, “that you have some lessons to learn, boy.”

The King flails, trying to escape the woman’s hold but it’s like trying to move a mountain—the woman doesn’t budge even a centimeter.

The girl watches in awe as her protector casually hooks a foot around the King’s leg and yanks his feet out from under him. He topples face-first to the ground with a yelp and the woman pins him easily with a foot between his shoulder blades. She lets out a disappointed sigh, staring down at the heap of him with a dispassionate expression on her face.

“You should also learn how to fight,” she comments, still in that same unaffected tone. Her steely blue eyes turn to the members of the posse, doing their best not to visibly cower. “Would anyone else like to try?”

A round of frantic headshakes.

“Pity,” the woman says and steps back, letting the King scramble to his feet.

“Let’s go,” he snaps to his cohorts, refusing to meet the woman’s gaze. “That stupid girl isn’t worth our time.”

He stalks away and the others quickly fall in behind him. The girl wonders if anyone is going to tell him about the shoe print staining the back of his shirt. Most of her attention, though, is occupied by her savior, who turns to her with another warm smile.

“Now,” she says, like nothing of importance just occurred. “Let me get my first aid kit.” She pauses again on the steps, turning back to the girl. “What’s your name?”

The girl stares, stunned. She cannot remember the last time someone asked her that, the last time someone cared to know. Not even her current foster parents really bothered—she is just “girl” to them as she has been to most others throughout her eleven years.

But this woman is going to remember, going to use it. The girl can read it on her face, seeing the patient way that she waits for an answer.

The girl licks her lips. Says, “Talia.”

The woman’s smile grows. “It’s nice to meet you, Talia. I’m Polo.”

And just like that, Talia feels a little as though she’s come back to life.

Suddenly, both her and her neighborhood ghost have a name.

That night, after she’s crept home with band-aids on her cheek and gauze around her scraped knuckles, Talia dreams. She walks through a forest of trees that extend so far above her head that she can barely see the sky. Their branches gnarl and twist, draped in vines like tattered clothes, and she thinks she can hear them whispering to each other.

They speak in a language that she can’t understand but it feels ancient, perhaps older than language itself.

Suddenly, a voice rises above the whispers—urgent and familiar, calling her name.

“Talia! TALIA!”

Polo.

She sees a flicker of moment in the shadows between the trees, a shock of white hair, and runs in that direction. But before she can reach the distance figure, the forest around her erupts into flames. The fire crawls up the trunks and into the branches, seethes through the undergrowth, and she gasps at the heat against her skin.

The ground beneath her feet rumbles like something deep and terrible is waking up. The whispers of the trees rise into screams, drowning out Polo’s voice. The ground cracks, gives way, and formless, black creatures claw their way to the surface.

Talia can see the glint of fangs reflecting the light of the spreading fire, see them extending their spiny limbs as though trying to grab her and she—

Wakes, screaming.