A Place To Call Home

When I told my parents I’d seen Tami’s father hit her, they made me stop playing with her. And I soon learned that I was not the only one who’d seen it. Everyone in our class five-two knew about Tami’s situation.           

“Let’s protect our friend,” one of us suggested.           

At first, we simply invited her to hang out. Then one day, during our excursion to the outskirts of town, we came across an abandoned bus while exploring the metal junkyard. Its interior still looked solid. 

“You could make this place your home,” someone said as a joke. “You don’t want to go back, do you, Tami?”          

She agreed.           

After Tami went missing, the adults were devastated, or at least they pretended to be. My family, for one, knew what Tami’s parents did to her, but they did nothing. And even now, no one wants to get involved.          

As for us, we were questioned by the police. But no one would tell them anything.           

“Winter’s coming,” we said during school lunchtime. “How about we pool some money to buy Tami some new clothes?”           

It would soon be three months since Tami had found her new home, and she had worked hard to make it a place where we could visit. Despite its rusty appearance from the outside, the interior of the old bus had been cleaned. Upon our arrival that evening, I could smell the cooking inside. 

“Welcome,” Tami came out to greet us. “Thanks for the meat you brought the other day. I made some curry. Stay and have some.”                      

I admit to having doubts whether this was the best solution.           

But at least our friend looked happy now that she could sleep at night without fear.           

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