It was some time before the others realized that she'd picked up a few numbers but had no precise idea of their meaning.
Because no one had ever taught her to count, she simply used numbers at random.
“Listen,” said the man, after conferring with the others, “would you mind if we told the police you're here?
Then you'd be put in a children's home where they'd feed you and give you a proper bed and teach you reading and writing and lots of other things.”
“How does that appeal to you?” Momo gazed at him in horror. “No,” she said in a low voice, “I've already been in one of those places.”
“There were other children there, too, and bars over the windows. We were beaten every day for no good reason - it was awful.”
“One night I climbed the wall and ran away. I wouldn't want to go back there.”
“I can understand that,” said an old man, nodding, and the others could understand and nodded too.
“Very well,” said one of the women, “but you're still so little. Someone has to take care of you.”
Momo looked relieved. “I can take care of myself.” “Can you really?” said the woman.
Momo didn't answer at once. Then she said softly, “I don't need much.”
Again the others exchanged glances and sighed. “Know something, Momo?” said the man who had spoken first.
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