At 11, Samantha has wavy black hair and a steady gaze. She flashes a smile when I ask about her favorite subject (history), and grimaces when I ask about her least favorite (math). She seems poised and cheerful, a normal preteen. But when we steer into uncomfortable territory—the events that led her to this juvenile-treatment facility 3000km from her family—Samantha hesitates and looks down at her hands. “I wanted the whole world to myself. So I made a whole entire book about how to hurt people.”

Starting at age 6, Samantha began drawing pictures of murder weapons: a knife, a bow and arrow, chemicals for poisoning, a plastic bag for suffocating. She tells me that she pretended to kill her stuffed animals. “You were practicing on your stuffed animals?,” I ask her. She nods. “How did you feel when you were doing that to your stuffed animals?” “Happy.” “Why did it make you feel happy?” “Because I thought that someday I was going to end up doing it on somebody.” “Did you ever try?” Silence. “I choked my little brother.”

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