Harry is curled up. The bed holds only a thin little blanket. There’s bars on the window, broken toys scattered about, pushed to the sides. A snowy owl screeches loudly, her white feathered wings banging against the sides of her cage. Harry’s eyes open slowly. His hands, brittle, reach to his nightstand, where a pair of familiar wired glasses lie. He sits up quickly, noting the three people in his room.