He hit her. It was a horrible pain, distinctly like a burn that spread from the point of impact--her neck--up to her cheek and across her throat. She went down and hit the ground hard, whimpering like a beaten animal. She was seven years old again, and she could have sworn that her foster father was shouting violently at her about how worthless she was, how useless her inventions were.
Someone grabbed her by the hair and pulled her up onto her knees. Her backpack was pulled from her, the process twisting her arms back unnaturally. In seconds, a black fabric hood went down over her head and handcuffs were slapped on. A hand wrapped around her waist and hoisted her up. Nell, being so emaciated, weighed ninety pounds at the most. Her assailants had no trouble picking her up, even though she was a dead weight.
Through the hood she heard the voices of the men giving military-style commands to each other. She heard no rank identification, and wondered if maybe these people weren't police or military. Platform's loud mouth was curiously absent from the yelling.

"...girl weighs nothing..."
"...probably never eats..."
"...old do you think she is?..."
"...don't like..."
"...riot baton. Did you hear her..."
"...left a mark on her neck..."
"...that therapist said that..."

They were carrying her down stairs now. She could tell by the echoes characteristic of footsteps in stairwells and by the fact that there was a not-so-subtle up-and-down to the ride.
"Is she awake?" someone asked.
"Yeah."
"Why isn't she flipping out?"