Sam was reading off the names from the lunches kids' parents had sent with them to camp. "Janine! There you go. Bari! Here. Ssss—" She coughed, then swallowed. "Um, Alan, could you come here?"

Alan paused his own lunch call and walked over. "What?""

"This. I don't think I can read this." She held up a brown paper bag with a name on it in Sharpie: Slut Johnson.

Alan's eyes nearly bulged out of his head. "I don't think I could read that either."

"Can I have my lunch, please?" The twelve-year-old girl stood, patient and calm.

"Are you..." Sam's eyes drifted back to the paper bag.

"Yeah, I'm the one you can't say. You can just call me S."

Sam hesitated until the girl reached out for her lunch, and Sam handed it over. Her mouth moved trying to find words. "Why..." She drew the word out, uncertain how or what to ask.

"My mom's reeeeeeeal messed up," the girl said. "Don't worry, I'll get her back by putting her in a home when she's old." The girl took her lunch and ran off to eat with her friends.

Sam turned to Alan. "She's pretty well-adjusted, all things considered."