“She’s a youth. She’s at least twelve.” “I ain’t twelve,” Lift snapped, looming over them. They turned up toward her. “I ain’t,” she said. “Twelve’s an unlucky number.” She held up her hands. “I’m only this many.” “…Ten?” Tigzikk asked. “Is that how many that is? Sure, then. Ten.” She lowered her hands. “If I can’t count it on my fingers, it’s unlucky.” And she’d been that many for three years now. So there.
