I took a photograph of my little cousin Kate last night. She was standing with her back against the sun and I overexposed it by far too much, but it'll have to do because it's the only one I have, and the only one I'm likely to ever have. I call her my little cousin because she's sixteen, but in truth, she's almost six feet tall. She could be a model, if you're into that sort of thing. When I was ten, she was four, and she used to run around naked all the time. The adults used to chase her and try to get her to put her clothes back on, and maybe that's when all this started. I never understood why they just couldn't let her be, and she never did either. Everybody else believed it was something disgusting, something in her that needed to be destroyed, and now here I am, meeting her in the middle of a crowded field on a Friday night, towering above me and looking frightened and lost because she's not allowed to live at home anymore, and she's not allowed back at her psychiatric unit, and her carer's watching her with all too careful eyes, and I ask her to come to my house tomorrow night for food and drinks, and she says that she might, and then she tells me she has to leave, and writes me later on to apologise for not getting to stick around any longer. She's tried to kill herself more times than I can count.