Jean awoke the next morning with a rumbling stomach. She showered, dressed in street clothes, went to the mansion library for a book on counseling abused children, then headed for the kitchen. Several X-Men were already there; Scott poured a cup of coffee and gave it to her with a kiss. Beast stood at the stove, looking a bit ludicrous in a frilly pink apron and chef's toque. "Felicitations, O Beauteous Telepathic One," he grinned toothily, waving a spatula. "What quantity of carbohydraic discs do you wish to consume this fair morning?"

 She smiled in reply as Cyclops seated her. "Just pile them on till your arm gets tired, I'm starved!"

 Storm looked up from her plate. "I checked our patient about half an hour ago and disconnected her IV and the other monitors. She will be frightened enough awakening in a strange place and being unable to move without the additional shock of finding tubes in her body. She is still unconscious, but she has remained stable; her heartbeat is strong and regular, and the swelling on her hand has receded a little."

 "That's my blood doin' that," Wolverine said smugly. "Want some OJ, Jean?"

 "Yes, please." She accepted a glass, drained it in several quick swallows, then sipped her coffee. "Ah, that hits the spot. Mmm, that bacon smells good!"

 Beast set a plate down in front of her. "To put it in the vernacular, 'chow down'."

Jean poured syrup on her pancakes and dug in, reading the first chapter of her book as she ate. After her first helping, she asked, "Where's everyone else?"

 "Ya just missed Doc O'Dell," Logan replied. "She grabbed some coffee 'n' a Danish 'n' headed t'the hospital fer rounds. Jubilee's still asleep, an' th' Cajun's workin' off his temper in the Danger Room. Prof's workin' on all sorts o' legal stuff: prosecutin' that sonuvabitch, tryin' t'track down info on what's-her-name, but I dunno what Rogue's up to."

 "I am concerned about her," Storm commented. "She awoke around four with a nightmare about our patient; I am surprised none of you heard her scream. I was unable to calm her, and Beast had to give her a sedative. I hope she is still asleep; when she awakens, will someone inform me? Something is obviously bothering her, and it might help if she talked this out with someone."

 Jean finished her coffee and held out the mug. "Could I have a refill, Scott dear? And could you find me a thermos and fill it with water? Our patient is sure to be thirsty."

 "Fill another with milk if you would, O Fearless Leader," Hank requested. "Her cracked jaw will necessitate a liquid diet for some time. Jean, if she will accept the milk, try to persuade her to drink some Ensure. It is easy to digest and full of nutrients. I believe there is some in the dispensary." His jovial air evaporated as he sighed. "I do not envy you your task; she may not understand English."

 "Well, that piece o' shit was talkin' ta her in English," Wolverine pointed out. He paused, then added, his voice full of remembered pain: "Some advice, Jean, from someone who's been there. She'll be groggy 'n' muddled from drugs, an' she may not understand what yer sayin', but she'll definitely understand how ya say it. Yer tone's gonna be more important than yer words, so talk soft 'n' gentle."

 "Yes, like calming an angry dog. Why, thank you, Scott!" Jean smiled as he presented her with a tray loaded with drinking glasses, thermoses, and her refilled mug. "I have a hunch this first meeting will be crucial, so wish me luck, everyone."

They toasted her with mugs of coffee as she headed for the infirmary. After setting down the tray and her book, Jean found some cans of Ensure, set them on the tray, then inspected the still-sleeping girl.

 She was frighteningly frail and pathetically vulnerable as she lay dwarfed by the big bed, swathed in bandages and immobilized by splints. She was small for a teen, shorter than Jubilee by several inches, with delicate, almost bird-like bones and few signs of physical maturity. Like many Hispanics, she seemed to have some Native American blood, as evidenced by her high cheekbones, bronze skin and ebony hair, an untidy mop cut every-which-way. [Probably hacked off with a knife,] Jean thought. Her hollow-cheeked face was too distorted by bruises to get a true idea of her features, but there were deep lines bracketing her mouth and eyes, lines of pain and bitterness that had no place on one so young. Jean felt a surge of anger. [How could anyone do such things to a human being, especially a child?] She drew a deep breath to calm herself, then recalled Storm's comment about the girl's vision and found a flashlight in a drawer. Closing both the Venetian blinds and the curtains, Jean next turned down the room lights to their dimmest setting. Finally she sat down, sipped her coffee, and skimmed more of her book by flashlight as she waited for the girl to awaken. She tried a mental probe and instantly found the psychic shields Xavier had mentioned, only slightly relaxed due to the girl's unconscious state. From time to time Jean probed her surface mind as much as the shields would allow, looking for signs of returning consciousness.

 {She was … somewhere. There had been black oblivion when his fist crashed into her jaw, a welcome oblivion she'd hoped would be permanent. But now, gradually, she became aware that she was aware: a gray, foggy awareness fuzzed and indistinct, but there nonetheless. Years of caution kept her still as she dazedly tried to focus that awareness and assess her situation.}

 Jean kept her mental touch delicate, forming a feather-light link with the girl's awakening mind.

 {Softness … she felt softness, a comforting and cradling softness, softer than anything she could remember. [Like -- cloud,] she thought muzzily. [I lie -- on cloud? I dead? This -- Heaven -- I hear about? No -- I hurt …] Through the softness and the fog came pain, dull, blunted, much less than she'd expected after that last savage beating, but still pulsing in her back, her leg, her arms and side and head and hand …}

 The thought was blurred and bleary. Jean turned off the flashlight and began to speak, keeping her voice soft and gentle and low. "It's all right. I'm not going to hurt you. Don't be afraid."

 {Sound! There was sound drifting through the fog -- a voice! [Not -- his -- voice. He -- try -- trick me?]}

The girl stirred, her eyelids fluttered, and her thoughts gradually grew clearer. "Don't be afraid," Jean repeated. "No one's going to hurt you."

{[Hurt me! He hurt me again! Belt! File! NO! No, please …]}

She shuddered violently, gasped, then her eyes snapped open.

 Jean stifled her own startled gasp, maintaining control with a mighty effort. [Dear heaven, those eyes!] They were definitely glowing in the dim light, just as Hank had predicted. The pupils were huge, larger than quarters and blacker than her hair, deep and liquid and mysterious and compelling. The eyes themselves were enormous, nearly twice normal size yet somehow neither grotesque nor repulsive. Widened by panic, they were far and away her most striking feature, covering nearly half her face and giving her a wistful, waif-like look.

For a frozen, endless moment the two stared at each other, equally taken aback. The girl's mind reeled in shock and confusion --

-- then her shields slammed shut, cutting off thoughts but emitting a blast of raw, jumbled emotion that made Jean dizzy. She shrank back against her pillows, trembling all over in fear yet baring her teeth in a silent, savage snarl. A vivid memory surfaced in Jean's mind: a tiny kitten, injured and being tormented by a vicious dog. Cornered, with nowhere to run and nothing to lose, the little creature had fought back with surprising courage. [Poor thing, she's like that kitten, beaten so much she nearly expects it, yet she's still got plenty of spark to her.] The redhead resisted the impulse to take the girl in her arms; she was on the verge of hysteria, and any movement on Jean's part might be perceived as a threat. Her fear and anger lashed at Jean's psychic awareness, and it took all her training to retain control and speak calmly. "Don't be scared," she said softly, remaining seated. "I'm not going to hurt you."

 "It's all right. You're safe now. There's nothing to be afraid of. I will not hurt you. No one is going to hurt you." Gently, patiently, over and over, Jean repeated the soothing phrases, putting all the sincerity and reassurance she could into her voice. This was the critical moment, she knew. She began to admire the girl; underneath the panic, hostility, disorientation and growing pain there was a steel-hard core of stubborn defiance. [Good for her! She's a tough one, still fighting in spite of everything,] Jean thought proudly. [There's a strong will behind that fragile appearance; no wonder her shields are so strong. She's certainly not insane, just scared out of her wits. Probably more confused than scared, finding herself in such strange surroundings. And she seems to understand me! Wonderful!]

 The girl's shaking slowly eased to quivers, and her fear and anger receded a little, replaced by a wary curiosity. "Please don't be afraid. I'm not going to hurt you, I want to help you. It's all right; you're safe now." Her brows knitted, and her still-fearful eyes searched the room. "That horrible man isn't here." Her eyes opened even wider, and for an instant there was a flicker of something besides fear and pain and distrust in their haunted depths, something that might be called hope.

 "Yes, he's gone. My friends and I found out what he was doing to you. The police have put him in jail. He will never hurt you again." The girl's eyes closed, she relaxed a little and breathed a very soft sigh.

 "It looks like you can hear me, and understand what I'm saying, but I need to be sure. I know you can't talk, but can you blink your eyes?" Her lashes flicked. "Good! Okay, two or three blinks, like this --" Jean demonstrated "-- mean yes, closing your eyes means no. If you understand, blink twice." Jean held up two fingers, and the girl responded with two quick but deliberate blinks. "Wonderful! You can understand me. You must be thirsty; would you like some water?" The girl blinked several times. Jean poured a glass of water, then rose and approached her slowly to keep from alarming her. She flinched as Jean extended the glass, but thirst exceeded fear and she let Jean hold the glass to her lips, swallowing rapidly as if afraid it might be snatched away. "It's all right," Jean said soothingly. "I want to help you get well, I'm not going to hurt you." When the glass was empty, the girl licked her lips longingly. "Want some more?"

Blink blink. This time the girl drank slower; trust seemed to be growing. Not wanting to push that trust too far, Jean sat back down.

"Please don't try to move, you need to lie as still as you can. It must be scary not to be able to move or use your hands, dear, but you have several broken bones. The brace on your arm and the cast on your leg are there to make them heal straight and help you get better, not to imprison you. I promise that as soon as we can, we'll take them off. Now, you probably have a lot of questions, and I can make a good guess at some of them. My name is Jean Grey. You're in a house owned by a man named Xavier, Professor Charles Xavier." There was no sign that the girl recognized the name, so Jean continued: "The Professor is the one who found out you were being hurt by that horrible man …"

 The girl started trembling again. "Don't be afraid, you are safe here. Like I said, the Professor sent me and my friends to take you away from him, and I promise he will never, ever hurt you again. In fact if he tries, my friends and I will hurt him." Jean could not keep all the anger out of her voice, and the girl looked puzzled. "I'm not mad at you, I'm mad at what he did to you. I just wish we could have found out earlier and gotten you away from him sooner, okay?"

Blink blink

"More water?" The huge eyes closed. "How about some milk?" Her eyes flew open and blinked repeatedly, yes yes yes yes. Jean poured a glassful, and the girl gulped it down eagerly. "Not too fast, now, you might get sick. You like milk?"

Yes yes yes yes

Jean smiled and poured another glassful. "There's plenty here, and you can have all you want. You won't be able to chew anything for a while because your jaw is cracked. That's why your face is swollen and bandaged." When the glass was empty, Jean set it down and opened a can of Ensure. "Will you try a little of this? It'll help you get well faster." The girl hesitated, then blinked. After a wary sip, her eyes opened wide and she drained the rest of the can.

 "I knew you'd like chocolate."

Yes yes yes yes. After a second can, Jean gave her another glass of milk, but halfway through the girl's face contorted, and she hissed softly between clenched teeth.

 "You're hurting real bad?"

Yes

Jean went to the dispensary and held up a medicine bottle. "This will help the hurt, but it will also make you sleepy. That's good, you need to rest so that you can get better. Would you like me to be here when you wake up with some more food?"

Yes yes yes

"All right. I know this tastes bad, but you can rinse your mouth with a little water." Jean continued to talk softly and reassuringly until the drug took hold and the girl slept, then set thermoses and glasses back on the tray and slipped out the door.

 Everyone was waiting for her around the corner, and her strained smile produced hopeful grins in response. She gave a quick report on the interview. "The poor thing is in a world of hurt, physically and emotionally," Jean finished. "Scared and confused, too, of course, but I got the definite impression that she was ready to fight, not run away. I gave her some painkiller, and she should sleep for about four hours."

 "Excellent, Jean. I'm proud of you," the Professor complimented. "You've done some important groundwork. It seems I'll have to increase our milk supply, and I'll order another case of Ensure."

 "See if she likes fruit juice 'n' broth, too," Rogue suggested. "She's gonna need lotsa protein 'n' vitamins ta get well."

 "It is fortuitous that she can not only hear, but also understands English," Beast commented. "It will make communication much simpler, and I find myself intrigued by the mystery of how she learned. Somehow I doubt her captor taught her. Any other 'first impressions', Jean?"

"She's older than she looks, not just in years but emotionally as well," Jean replied. "There's definitely something very un-childish about her, though I can't put my finger on exactly what or why …"

Storm looked thoughtful. "A major difference between a child and an adult is not physical age, but a grasp of mortality. Children have no true concept of death or evil, they hold the naïve and innocent belief that nothing terrible can ever happen to them, that they are somehow invulnerable and immortal. Our patient has had that belief literally beaten out of her. Therefore, I feel we should ignore her apparent age and small size in dealing with her, no baby talk or 'talking down' in that dreadful condescending way some nurses do. She will probably resent being treated as a child even more than Jubilee does."

 "That's 'cause I'm not a 'child' …" Jubilee muttered under her breath, but Wolverine heard her.

 "Mebbe if ya quit actin' like one …" he muttered back, rumpling her hair.

"Whatever the reason, she's going to be a long time healing inside," Jean said with a sigh. "You know those World War II photographs of the children found in the concentration camps? That's what her expression reminds me of: eyes full of pain and horror and anger and despair and betrayal and not knowing why …" She swayed a moment, holding a hand to her head. "I -- I'd better lie down for a while. We need to change her bandages this afternoon, and that's a two-person job. It'll be a tough one, too, she's understandably terrified of being touched. Rogue, what do you think of this idea?"

 That afternoon, Jean was again seated in the low-lit infirmary, waiting for the girl to awaken. A brief nap had restored Jean's strength, and helped her to shore up her own shields. She'd placed her chair a bit closer to the bed, and various forms of liquid nourishment stood ready. The girl woke panicked and shaky, but she quickly calmed down to Jean's soothing words of comfort. "Ready for some lunch?"

Blink blink. Jean began with a glass of milk and a can of Ensure, then tried her on orange juice. The girl looked startled at the first swallow.

"You've never had orange juice before?" She closed her eyes. "Hmm. Will you try some more?"

Blink blink. She sipped slowly but steadily, and emptied the glass.

"Good!" Jean said approvingly. "You're willing to try some new tastes, it seems. Ever had chicken soup?" Again the girl closed her eyes. "No wonder you're so thin. Well, try a little taste." At the first spoonful, she blinked rapidly and licked her lips. "You like it?"

Yes yes yes

"Good, the more you can eat, the sooner you'll be well." The girl finished all the soup, then drank another can of Ensure. "That's enough for now. If you eat too much too fast, you might get sick to your stomach and that won't do you any good. I'll bring you some more this evening, okay?"

Blink blink

Jean drew her chair a bit closer and sat down again. "Now, you remember I said that my friends and I took you away from that awful man, right?"

Yes

"Well, one of those friends wants to meet you. Your bandages need changing and I'll need her help." The girl stiffened, and Jean added, "She won't hurt you, I promise." Slowly she blinked in assent. Jean raised her voice slightly and said, "Rogue, would you come in and meet our new friend?"

 Rogue opened the door but did not enter; the girl studied her warily. "Howdy, sugah," Rogue said gently. "Mah name's Rogue, an' Ah wanna help ya 'n' be yo' friend, too. C'n Ah come in?" The girl blinked twice, very slowly, and Rogue approached a step at a time. "Don't be skeered, Ah won't hurt ya. Ah just need ta help Jean change some o' yo' bandages."

Yes. Slowly Jean arose; she and Rogue moved cautiously closer, then Jean carefully reached out and lightly touched the girl's cheek. It was the first time she had actually touched her when she was conscious, and the girl flinched and shivered at the contact.

 "We won't hurt you," Jean said, stroking her cheek tenderly. "We must touch you in order to help you. I realize you're scared of being touched, dear, and I'm sorry, but it's necessary if you want to get well and be able to move around. Will you let us change your bandages?" The girl cringed in obvious fear and her eyes were full of tears, but she blinked twice. "Good. This may hurt a bit, but we're not doing it to be mean or to punish you. You haven't done anything wrong. Now, hold still; you don't have to watch."

 She kept her eyes shut as Jean and Rogue worked, and shivered the whole time, but they were as gentle and quick as possible, and they soon finished their task. "There! We're done," Jean said finally. "I'm proud of you. That must have been very uncomfortable, but you knew we were trying to help you, right?"

Yes

"Good. I'll give you something for the pain, and you get some more sleep. Rogue or I will be here when you wake up again with more food, okay?"

Yes. She accepted the sedative and was soon asleep.

Jean and Rogue looked at each other and heaved a sigh in unison. "Po' lil' gal," Rogue whispered as they tiptoed out. "This is gonna be difficult."

 The next two weeks were indeed difficult; trust was fragile, and building it required patience and a lot of very hard work.

The girl's physical condition steadily improved. The healing factors in Logan's blood, plus Shi'ar technology, helped speed her recovery: bruises faded, cuts closed, and bones began to knit. Soon they were able to decrease her sedation, and she grew more alert and coherent as a result. Bandages gradually came off permanently, though there were scars on her back from neck to mid-thigh, so ghastly and extensive that Hank began researching the latest advances in reconstructive surgery. Her concussion and jaw healed, allowing her head to move; nods replaced yes-and-no eyeblinks, and she began to eat solid food. The girl's slowly growing trust seemed largely based on the simple fact that they fed her. Being half starved, she was willing to try anything once, though her nurses were disturbed at how many foods seemed unfamiliar to her. Her appetite was enormous, and soon the hollows in her cheeks and between her ribs began to fill in.

Her mental and emotional recovery was quite another matter. Caring for her was a touchy and exacting job. Though she seemed to understand that her nurses meant well and were trying to help her, it was clear that the psychic damage caused by her ordeal was severe, for she flinched at the slightest touch, and an upraised hand or clenched fist made her either shiver in terror or glare in anger. Another stumbling block was the lack of something to call her. Xavier had been unable to find out her name; standard identity checks had found nothing, and her captor was refusing interviews on the advice of his lawyer. Addressing her as "dear", "honey", "sugah" or other affectionate nicknames was the best they could do for the moment, and she did respond favorably when greeted in this way. Jean and Rogue found their patient accepted their aid with less distress when they explained why they were doing the things they did, and she stoically endured sponge baths, bedpans, and other necessary indignities of being bedfast. Storm joined the nursing crew, and the three lavished their patient with reassurances and TLC. Little by little, her fear and distress began to ease, and her confidence grew as pain lessened and mobility increased. Yet despite all their comfort and care and kindness, the girl remained locked in a shell of fear and distrust, skittish and aloof, unwilling or unable to accept or return their friendly overtures. She never smiled, and her solemn face and big, tragic eyes gave her a forlorn, woebegone expression that pulled at her nurses' hearts.

The breakthrough finally came on the eighteenth day after her rescue, when Storm took the braces and splints off her left arm. "Can you move your fingers for me?" She flexed them, then made a fist. "Bend your wrist, slow and easy." She cautiously moved her arm. "Any pain?" She held her forefinger and thumb a half inch apart. "Good! You are making excellent progress." The girl bit her lip, slowly extended her arm, timidly touched Storm's arm, then yanked her hand back as if the touch had burned her. Storm held still, knowing the importance of the touch, for it was the first time the girl had willingly sought contact. [But why is she so afraid?] Again she gingerly reached out; her lips quivered, and a horrid suspicion grew in Storm's mind. "I know you fear being touched because you were beaten so much. Were you also beaten for touching others?" She didn't need to nod, the pain in her eyes was answer enough. Storm's voice quivered with emotion. "My dear child, I will never hit you, no matter what you do. You may touch me or any of us without fear." Her hand touched Storm's arm, gripped, and drew Storm closer. She hesitated, then leaned her head against Storm's shoulder. Storm gently put her arms around her; the girl tensed but did not pull away. She drew a ragged, shuddering breath, then began to cry, trembling violently as tears streamed down her cheeks. "There, there, little one. Let it go," Storm murmured, stroking her hair. "It's over. It's all over." The girl wept for what seemed hours, releasing long pent-up emotions. Storm didn't try to stop her, and suddenly realized that she was making sounds: tiny, barely audible whimpers that spoke more eloquently of her anguish than the most violent sobs. But at last her shivers and whimpers and tears slowed, and she lifted her head, sniffling. Storm smiled and reached for a tissue. After a good nose blow, the girl sighed in relief and her face relaxed. "It feels good to get it out of your system, yes?" Storm asked sympathetically. "You certainly have had much to cry about." The girl nodded, traced her fingertips down her cheek, then gestured as if striking herself. "You mean he would beat you just for crying?" Storm gasped, shocked at the notion. The girl nodded, her face contorted with grief. "Well, no one is going to hit you for crying around here!" Storm declared indignantly, and the girl's eyes glowed with gratitude.

 Storm started to get up, and the girl caught her sleeve and tugged. "You want me to stay?" She nodded vigorously, her eyes pleading. "You must be lonely and bored, lying in bed all day with nothing to do." Another emphatic nod. "All right. Do you know what a mutant is, my friend?" For an hour Storm explained about mutants and the X-Men, even making a tiny rain cloud and filling a drinking glass as a demonstration. "Now, you are a mutant just like we are. That is why you cannot talk, and why your eyes are so large and sensitive to light. We will have to wait until you are fully recovered before we can find out whether you have any special powers or not." The girl's head was nodding and her eyelids were beginning to droop, and Storm added as she rose, "It looks like you need some sleep, my friend."

 That evening the girl stared in surprise at the heavily loaded tray Jean was carrying. "Storm says you've been feeling lonely, so I thought I'd have dinner with you." Her face lit up with delight, and for the first time there was a flicker of a smile. "Also, now that your arm's okay, you can feed yourself if you like." She nodded eagerly and reached for a glass of milk. She did not know how to use a fork, though, and had trouble using it with her left hand. "Are you right-handed?" Jean asked. The girl nodded glumly, lifting her still-bandaged right hand. "Don't worry, you'll be able to use it in time. You're getting better every day."

 When they had finished eating, Jean set the tray aside and asked, "You don't know how to read, do you?" The girl shook her head sadly, her cheeks bright with shame. "Want to learn?" The smile was more certain this time. Jean printed the alphabet on a large sheet of paper, named each letter, indicated its sound and explained how letters combined into words. The girl frowned and looked confused. Jean picked up her half-empty glass, then pointed to the letters. "Milk. M-I-L-K." Suddenly the girl's face lit up; she patted her mattress, then pointed to B-E-D, shaking with excitement. Jean's jaw dropped in surprise. "Heavens, you are smart! I've never seen anyone catch on so quickly!" The praise produced a full-fledged smile, and it transformed her entire face, revealing a delicate, elfin beauty.

They spent a delightful hour spelling out familiar objects and making simple sentences. It didn't matter that spelling was atrocious and grammar non-existent; they were communicating, and the girl's face was radiant with an eagerness and joy that warmed Jean's heart. Finally, Jean paused and asked, "Where did you learn your English?" TV was the reply. "Now for a question we've waited a long time to ask you. What is your name?"

 To Jean's dismay, the girl turned her face away, and she began to tremble violently. Jean sprang to her feet so fast she knocked her chair over, shouting angrily, "You mean that filthy monster never even gave you a NAME?" The girl shrank back at Jean's anger, shaking her head as tears ran down her cheeks, and Jean found herself crying as well. "Dear, I am so sorry! I didn't mean to hurt your feelings, and I wasn't shouting at you!" The apology seemed to surprise the girl; she tapped Jean's arm and spelled Y U KRY, looking puzzled. "It makes me so mad that anyone could be so nasty, and I feel sorry for hurting you."

NOT MAD, U NOT TRY HURT

"Did he call you anything?"

BICH, HEY U, ANIMUL, DUMY

"Well, you are certainly no dummy! It takes most people weeks to learn the basics of reading, and you got it in just one lesson! I'm proud of you!" Jean righted her chair, sat back down, and heaved a sigh. "I think we both could use a drink of water and a break, or do you want to continue?" The girl shook her head and spelled TIRD. "You've had quite a day, haven't you? All right, we'll continue in the morning."

 "No NAME?" Wolverine's fist crashed on the table. "Even goldfish get names, fer crissake!"

 The team was seated at the marble-topped table in the Conference Room for what was now a daily ritual: reports on the girl's progress, with discussions (always lively and often acrimonious) of plans for therapy and treatment. The men especially enjoyed these sessions, since the infirmary was still off-limits.

"Wolverine, calm down!" Xavier's voice was stern. "I agree that this is mental abuse of a severe and unconscionable nature, but losing your temper will not undo the damage."

 "I am at a loss to explain her captor's behavior," Hank admitted. "Police interviews with him show no indications of insanity or psychosis, yet he could not or would not see her obvious humanity."

 "Mebbe he not want t'see it," Gambit commented, looking thoughtful. "She make money f'him, so if he admit she human, he lose his livin'."

 "If so, why the cruelty?" Cyclops wondered. "Any good animal trainer knows you achieve better results with kindness, but his treatment of her borders on the sadistic."

 "She is getting better," Jean offered. "She doesn't cringe every time we touch her, she's gained over ten pounds and can sit up by herself, and she caught on to reading with amazing speed."

 "Yes, proving that she's highly intelligent, a quick study, and not just willing but eager to learn," Xavier replied, welcoming the change in subject. "All promising and worthwhile attributes."

 "She's got spunk, too," Logan added with a touch of admiration in his voice. "After all she's been through, it took a lotta guts fer her t'reach out 'n' touch you, Storm."

 Storm nodded. "Much progress was made today: her first overt display of emotion, the catharsis of tears, a new method of communication, a measure of independence in being able to feed herself …"

 "But what do we call her?" Jubilee asked wistfully.

 "Sumthin' purty," Rogue suggested. "Flora, maybe? It's a Hispanic name."

 They discussed various names for some time -- Jubilee and Gambit wrangled cheerfully over assorted New Age and French suggestions -- but were unable to agree on anything. Surprisingly, it was Wolverine that brought the fruitless debate to a close. "Why don't we let her choose? It's gonna be her name, she's got a right t'have a say in the matter."

 "He's right," Jubilee agreed. "Like, what if the name we pick has bad vibes for her or somethin'?"

 "A valid point, Jubilee, even if ungrammatical," Xavier confirmed. "I suggest we let the matter rest for now, the right name will most likely suggest itself."

 Spring arrived a week later, with clear skies, sunshine, and the garden bursting with flowers. Jean entered the infirmary to find the girl absorbed in a picture book which Rogue had brought her from the library. "Good morning," Jean greeted her. "I've got a surprise for you after we've finished breakfast." She nodded eagerly, setting the book on the side table. After apple juice, milk, and oatmeal liberally sprinkled with raisins and brown sugar, Jean set the tray aside and said, "Do you think you're ready to meet some more of my friends?" She smiled and nodded. "This friend is a man," Jean added. The smile faded, her eyes went wide with fright, and she began to tremble. "Please don't be afraid. Not all men are nasty and mean like that horrible creep. Most of them are good and kind. This man is a very special friend of mine, and he wouldn't hurt you any more than Rogue or Storm or I would. Will you give him a chance to prove it?" The girl reached out to hold Jean's hand, then slowly nodded, her chin quivering. "You are a very brave young lady," Jean said softly, then added, louder, "Scott?"

 Scott opened the door but did not enter. "Good morning," he said, smiling. "I'm Scott Summers. May I come in?" Still shivering, the girl gripped Jean's hand, then nodded. "Thank you," he added, coming a few steps closer. "I'm not going to hurt you, I promise. It's a beautiful sunny day; how'd you like to go out in the garden and get some fresh air?" Her face lit up and her shaking ceased, then she frowned and shaded her eyes with her hand. "Don't worry, I've thought of that," Scott said, taking a pair of dark glasses from his pocket. "Try those on; I'll be right back." He left briefly and returned pushing a wheelchair; the girl looked at it with obvious misgivings. "Will you let me pick you up and put you in this? I won't hurt you." She tensed, then nodded slowly. Scott lifted her as if she were spun glass, and gently set her in the chair. Jean adjusted the support for her plaster-covered left leg, then produced a bed jacket and lap robe. With Scott pushing and Jean walking beside her holding her good hand, they headed out the door and down the hallway.

 When they emerged into the back garden, the girl was so overwhelmed by the sights and smells and sounds of a pleasant April morning that they parked the wheelchair under a shady tree and let her have some time alone to adjust. After a while, Rogue approached. She paused, seeing that the girl was staring fixedly at a brilliant flutter of color. [Po' thing's nevuh seen a butterfly b'foh',] she thought, blinking back tears of distress. Swallowing the lump in her throat, she forced a smile. "Purty, ain't it, sugah? Ya like it out here?" The girl removed her glasses and squinted for a moment, then tucked them in the pocket of her bed jacket, nodding and inhaling with an exaggerated sniff. "Smells good, don't it? Ready t'meet someone else?" She nodded again, and Professor Xavier glided around the hedge and approached her.

 "Good morning," he greeted her with a disarming smile. "I'm Professor Charles Xavier, and I want to assure you that no one here will harm you in any way." She returned his smile hesitantly, raised her eyebrows and pointed to his powered chair, then patted her wheelchair. "That's right, I can't walk either," he said, holding out a hand to her; she touched his fingertips cautiously. "However, in my case it's permanent." Her face fell, and Xavier added, "Don't feel sorry for me, I've grown used to it." She seized her alphabet sheet and spelled U MUTANT? "Yes, I'm a telepath, which means I can read thoughts." She drew back in alarm, and he said reassuringly, "Don't worry; I will never enter your mind without your permission, I promise. Now, this house belongs to me, and you're welcome to stay as long as you like."

 She visibly relaxed, her confidence obviously improved by the encounter. Rogue patted her shoulder and asked, "Now that weren't so bad, now wuz it, hon? Ready fo' the next?" She nodded, her eyes brighter and her face full of curiosity.

 Gambit advanced, escorted by Jean and Scott. "Bon jour, ma cherie," he said with a courtly bow. "My name Remy, but ev'ryone call me Gambit. It a pleasure t'meet such a lovely lady." She didn't seem repelled by his demonic eyes, but blushed at his gallant flattery and shyly allowed him to kiss her hand.

 Jubilee was next, and the girl was plainly thrilled at meeting someone close to her own age. "I've been waitin' so long t'meet you!" Jubilee bubbled, and was overjoyed when the girl actually hugged her. The others were equally delighted, for it was the first spontaneous sign of affection she had shown.

 Beast knew from bitter experience that his appearance could very easily frighten their new friend, and he had chosen a different approach. From behind the hedge his voice came, quoting from Byron:

 A bouquet of flowers then flew over the hedge and floated into the girl's lap (with a telekinetic assist from Jean). Delighted, she picked them up and inhaled their fragrance, then spelled TAWK NICE. Y HIDE? Jean replied, "Hank is a mutant, just like we are, but his mutation has made him look very different. He doesn't want to scare you."

NOT HURT ME?

"Of course not. He's a doctor, a healer, and helped fix you up when you first got here."

OK

"Hank?" Jean called, and Beast stepped around the hedge with Storm at his side and another bouquet in his hand. The girl gaped and stared, but her face showed startled surprise rather than fear or disgust, and Hank felt a sore spot within him grow a little less painful.

 "Dr. Henry McCoy at your service, fair maiden: Hank to my friends, Beast to everyone else. May I have the honor of approaching?" Too intrigued to be afraid, she nodded, still staring. Slowly he advanced, offered the bouquet and said: "For one lovelier than any of these, my dear." She extended her hand, but instead of taking the flowers, she touched his furry arm, then spelled U R REEL. "Very real," he replied. "All mutations have advantages and disadvantages; we must learn to take the bad along with the good. But I assure you, I am as human as you are." A very strange expression passed over her face at his words, a mixture of anger, grief and frustration. She shuddered violently, then covered her face with her good hand.

 Wolverine had just come around the hedge for his introduction and froze, smelling trouble. Jean touched the girl's shoulder and asked, "What's the problem, dear?" She was trembling and fighting tears, stabbing her forefinger at her alphabet sheet, struggling to control herself and spell out a message.

 Professor Xavier gently took her hand and said, "If you have something important you wish to tell us, I can enter your mind and act as your voice for a short time. I promise it will not hurt, and I will not go any deeper or stay any longer than I must." She hesitated, then lifted her head and nodded. "Close your eyes and concentrate on what you want to say," Xavier instructed her as he touched his fingertips to her temples. "There is a wall in your mind … imagine a door in that wall. Now, let that door open slowly …" There was a long silence, then a soft, feminine voice came from the Professor's throat:

 "So different now … sometimes think this all is dream. All I remember, all I ever know is Cruel One, and hunger and hitting and fear." There was no doubt in anyone's mind who the "Cruel One" was. "Because I not talk and afraid of light, Cruel One say I am animal and treat me like animal: make me wear collar and leash, keep me in cage, feed me raw meat." Jean gasped in horror. "He make money show me at freak shows, he call me 'animal girl' or 'the thing', and people laugh and stare and poke at me." There were more gasps, and several angry mutters. "When I little I not know any better, but I get older I see that Cruel One is wrong, that I am people. I try so hard make him see that I am not animal, but if I not do what he say, he not feed me. When I try fight, he beat me, each time more hard." Rogue and Jubilee were both in tears, and even Logan had to blink a few times. "And now … you all so kind and patient and good. You give me back my life, you all know right away that I am people, and treat me that way, with -- with -- think word is 'respect'. Dr. McCoy, I sorry for stare at you: you not animal, and I am not animal too." There was a pause; the voice whispered, "I am not animal," then shouted defiantly, "I am NOT animal!"

 Beast finally broke the tension-filled silence. "No apologies are necessary, and I would be deeply honored if you would call me Hank. You are most definitely not an animal, for you have a soul. Now, 'Alma' is Latin for 'soul', and it is also a very suitable and beautiful name for a woman. Would you like to be named 'Alma'? Then we will always remember that you have a soul and are therefore human."

 It was completely, utterly perfect. The newly named Alma burst into tears, grabbed Hank's hand, and kissed it; Jean hugged him, weeping with joy, while Gambit and Cyclops shook his other hand and thumped his back in congratulation. The Professor was beaming, Jubilee jumped up and down, clapping her hands and squealing "Yes! Yes! YES!", while Rogue and Storm did ecstatic pirouettes in midair.

 Alma finally lifted her head and wiped her eyes, and spotted Wolverine waiting for the hoopla to die down so he could have his turn to be introduced. He had been uncharacteristically and unusually patient, but he wanted to get a good look at her, since all he'd ever seen was a battered and bloody form during her rescue. With a touch of smug pride at being the first to greet her with her new name, he said "Hi, Alma, I'm Logan, but Wolverine will do fer every day," as he inspected her: a small, slender, bronze-skinned girl seated in a wheelchair, her right hand encased in a mitten of bandage, rough-cut black hair framing a still-thin but expressive face with high cheekbones, wide forehead, a delicate mouth, and extremely determined chin, and her eyes …

 Time, the universe and Logan's heart stopped as he looked into those eyes.

 And looked.

 And looked.

 And looked.

 It was not "love at first sight" -- Wolverine was far too scarred and cynical to fall for anything that hackneyed -- but it had all the impact of a punch in the gut from Juggernaut. Something in those two enormous, ink-dark pools held him entranced, and he could not look away to save his life; indeed, he did not want to look away. Yet he did not feel trapped or coerced or invaded; he felt welcomed, accepted, as if a missing piece of himself had been given back. Whatever might come of this day, Logan knew he had been irrevokably changed by the fathomless depths of those incredibly devastating eyes.

 Alma was staring back in frozen awe, equally spellbound, and the X-Men knew something rare and wonderful and profoundly important was taking place. At last the spell was broken by a discreet cough from Beast. Logan suddenly realized that his heart had jumped up into his throat and was hammering to be let out, and his stomach was doing somersaults all up and down his spine. He shook his head and blinked to clear out the cobwebs -- and was stunned and dismayed to see that Alma had fainted.

 Some time later, Storm ducked into the infirmary to check on Alma. She was sound asleep, but had obviously awakened at some point: she was sitting up, with a pencil clutched in her left hand and a sheet of paper on her lap. Printed on the paper, in large, clumsy capitals, was a triumphant message: