Belinda comes to us with blood under her nails. “I think I hurt myself.”
We, the counselors, look up from our activities planning session in the TV lounge. Belinda’s legs are streaked red; ragged scratches slide down her arms, her chest. She wears only shorts and her giant greying bra, which has stayed miraculously clear of blood. When she wipes the tears from her face, she leaves a pink smudge behind.
“Will you help me?” She says this directly to me.