The door opens suddenly.
A stooped woman comes out of the office, sorrow written all over her face, her eyes fixed on the floor.
“Ima?!” I nearly faint. “What are you doing here?”
All the madrichot turn toward us, wide-eyed.
What did Mrs. Einstadter say to Ima? My heart imagines the worst.

And then I see the twelfth square. The high stage in the large auditorium appears on the principal’s security screen. One girl is dancing there… She stands in the front row, in the center. Her
movements are confident.

It’s hard to make out her features. The figures are distant, slightly blurred. But the girl looks happy. Alive.

As if there is no today. And no tomorrow. As if there’s no one in the world besides her. As if there isn’t a glass of water on Mrs. Einstader’s desk, and a box of tissues.

I wrote this story for you.
All the good girls. The ones who sometimes bite their lips until it hurts. The ones who, with quiet courage, turn their gaze away. Hold their steps back from another path.

My applause is for you, the invisible fighters.
The ones no one knows are fighting.

For anyone who has a sister, a friend, or even just an acquaintance who wandered into the desert.

For anyone who has The Strength to Stay.