Alana is old enough to understand now that everyone uses their own childhood as a benchmark for normal. A four-year-old in South Central sleeps on the floor to avoid stray bullets. A six-year-old on New York’s Upper East Side has a private chef to make him breakfast every day. A seven-year-old in Cambodia collects shrapnel left by American bombs a half-century earlier so her family will be able to buy food. And none of them ever question it, because it’s all they know.

That’s why Alana never really wondered why she and her mom would get up to run twenty miles before dawn every day. Or why she could lift so much more and throw so much further and move so much faster if she wanted to. She learned to read by studying the monsters in the Compendium, which included anatomical drawings that highlighted nerve clusters and major arteries. And she kept it all a secret, because her mother told her to.

Then, on the night of her first period, her mother locked her out of the house when the Shadowmen came in response to her scent. She fought for her life, slashing desperately with her sword for eight hours until the dawn broke. But she survived.

That morning, while Alana slept, exhausted, her mother walked back into the forest and left her, because her training was complete.

Normal is whatever you grow up with.

It’s much neater inside the trailer, everything squared away and in its place, like the suitcase of a veteran traveler. But it’s impossible to scrub away the look of cheap stuff made to last long past its useful shelf life, or paint over the holes that have rusted right through the walls.

Every time she sees this place, it breaks her heart. They never had a lot of money when she was a kid. Hailey Thomas made fun of her winter coat because it had another kid’s name written in it. In her whole childhood, she never had an Oreo in her house. She had “Chocolate Sandwich Cookies” and “Cola-Soda” and “Dr. Diablo” when her dad wanted to spoil her. Playdates at her classmates’ houses were like field trips into a world with actual brand names instead of dollar-store knockoffs.

But they were never this poor. Her dad lost the house in 2009 when his refinancing deal turned into a balloon payment that would have consumed his entire retirement fund. Rather than admit he couldn’t pay his debts, he mailed his house key to the bank. Alana blames herself, even though he signed the documents without telling her.

She’s offered to find him a better place, or fix this one up. She’s not rich, but she can afford to do that, despite her student loan payments. He insists he’s happy here. She’s tired of fighting about it. He’s determined to live out the rest of his days, right here, waiting by the forest.