"Michael, what happened to you?" Spectre heard a concerned voice of a young girl. Judging by the voice, Spectre would say the girl was in her teenage years, probably eighteen or nineteen.
"The usual," said the kid named Michael. The other children surrounded him. Looking at the bruises on his face, the young girl knelt down to match his height. Her eyes watered.
"Where is the sister?" asked Michael.
"Inside," one of the children whispered. Silence fell over them for a moment until the thunder rumbled in the distance.
"Here. Eat this," Michael gave the piece of bread he was hiding inside his shirt to the young girl.
"Where, where did you get this? Is this why you're looking like this?" the girl questioned Michael. Tears began to roll out of her eyes. She was an orphan, not stupid. By the bruises and the blood coming out of the cuts on his little body, she could guess where he went to get the bread.
