@vilestblood : "Absolutely not. You will get out of bed and go to school — whether you like it or not." (For Avita, he's using his Dad Voice.)

A much-aggrieved whine comes from the pitiful lump of disgruntled eight year old coccooned under sheet and blanket. It's a long, modulated, drawn out sound that within it contains the most common sentiment of displeasure every child confronted with school at 7 am has historically needed no words to convey: i don't wanna.

It's horribly, unacceptably unfair, Avita thinks, that she has to have school every day. Has to, even if she doesn't want to. Come hell or high water, plight or sorrow. Sun death, perhaps. Sometimes it feels like a personal slight against her. Some horrid unbreakable loop of having to return to the place that ails her most often. One small foot pokes out comically from the bundle - a measly attempt to jumpstart her day which gets interrupted by a great tantrumy kick at the air. Must she be required to exert effort from her feeble little body? Is it not enough she will visit hell? Must she be presentable and punctual for it too? God, but what a cruel joke. Why even go when she knows she'll just bungle her science oral exam and take way too long in maths and have words with insufferable little Cecilia and get snickered at in english for her slow drawl and tie her sneakers too loose in P.E. and-

The buildup comes to a head when the bundle writhes angrily. Loud, moaning and apocalyptic in her frustration, she kicks her feet against the duvet, snagging sheets and blankets off the bed in the heat of it. One pillow becomes collateral as well. It's a seconds-long, yet heartfelt hurricane, its little face scrunched up pre-waterworks style. With one last aborted outburst and a resolute 'umph', she stills.

Spent and left a lone ship on her stripped clean bed, Avita lays there in a moment of peace, sighs full-bodily and sits up. Bleary eyed, squinting, morose. Little devil interrupted.

Then takes a deep, back-straightening breath and picks her head up high.

"Ok, fine."

Half-socked feet come to dangle off the bed's edge as she faces papá at last, resigned. Little steps for little feet, he'd said once. Very well, then. She'll walk. Even if they feel especially little this morning.

"Will you tie my shoelaces for me today?"