She gives me a look over her glasses, which have fallen to the tip of her nose. “This is just one story. I have loads more. Do you want to hear all of them?”

“I’d love that, but let’s start with this one today, okay?” The girl is cute and precocious, and I wonder how many times we’ve worked together, because she seems very comfortable with me.

She spreads her book out on her thighs, and I can see that she has colored illustrations in crayon on the page opposite her text. Her glasses fall off her face, and she sighs dramatically and sets them on her lap. “Once upon a time, there was a really brave girl named Uki, and she was an epic hunter who could feed her entire village.” She holds up her book and shows me a drawing in brown crayon of a girl—I know because of the triangle skirt she wears on her mostly stick-figure body—holding a pink bow, an arrow cocked and ready. Behind the figure are tall mountains drawn in upside-down v’s and colored green. The girl turns the page. “One day, Uki found a boy who was locked in a cave with no food and no water. He was so hungry, and it made her so mad that she screamed into the mountains and brought down an avalanche, and then she made a fire and melted the snow into water. Then she ran out into the forest and brought home some vegetables and hamburger meat and Pop-Tarts and probably some candy and gave them all to the boy, who was never, ever hungry again.” She shows me the picture on this page; this one has a drawing of a cow—I’m guessing from the udders, which are drawn with meticulous care—and a box of what I think might be Pop-Tarts, surrounded by multicolored lollipops. She turns the page, and this drawing is simple. A big red heart, colored pink on the inside. “And the boy loved her from that day on.” She closes the book, puts her glasses back on, and smiles up at me. “Do you like it?”

I nod, amused by her imagination. “I do, very much. You’re a good writer, and your mom sounds like a very brave woman.” I hesitate, wondering if I’ve met her mother before, and decide to ask, “Do I know her?”

She puts one hand on her hip and gives me a look. Annoyance? Pity? It’s hard to tell behind her cat-eye glasses, which cover half her face.

Kiko claps her hands. “Okay, kids, time to move to your next station.”