She has washed. I can smell soap. Her hair is still wet and dripping a little on her shoulders. Her skin is scrubbed almost raw and a few of the smaller cuts are bleeding. A new white bandage covers the wound on the back of her hand. But that's not what I'm looking at. She is wearing Mum's clothes, a blue dress that comes down just below her knees, a big floppy jumper and a pair of sneakers. Her hands are by her sides, clutching the material tight in her fingers.