She seems tall for her age. That is, until you notice the four inch heels that she's wearing. There's a bit of a disconnect here. She's only seven years old. Let's call her Mandy because she needs a name even if no one cares what it is.
(Aye matey, there be trigger warnings ahead, after the fold)
It's 1969. Just a moment. Think. It's 1969. Mini skirts. Go-go boots. Mandy's too young to watch the war on TV (Vietnam is and always will be, the war) but she watches it anyways. She watches as a nation tear itself apart but Mandy's a little messed up so it really isn't the most important thing on her mind.
Mandy walks a little stretch of street in downtown Minneapolis. Her pimp, if you could call her that, is an eighteen year old girl who can't keep her either of her two hookers safe. Mandy's best friend, the other hooker, is the pimp's little sister. After all, what are big sisters for?
She doesn't get much in the way of pay for her work. Mandy doesn't get fed at home so she takes what she can get. A candy bar here or an orange push-up ice cream, there, food is food. Mandy had been sexually abused for going on two years when the hooking started. Same shit, different pay, or so they say.
One night, her pimp takes her to see "Night of The Living Dead" at the drive-in. What Mandy sees, scares the shit out of her but she doesn't see much as she's giving blow-jobs out of the trunk of her pimp's boyfriend's car. The boyfriend has been sexually assaulting Mandy for about a year and a half. Mandy hates fucking zombies. Mandy will always hate fucking zombies.