“Who did this to you?”
My hand gripped the cold metal bed rail until my knuckles turned white. The fluorescent lights in the hospital room buzzed with a dull, headache-inducing hum, and the sharp scent of antiseptic burned in my nose. I looked at my daughter, and the blood in my veins—usually warm and steady—turned to ice.
Clara looked shattered. Her left eye was swollen shut, a brutal mix of purple and black. One arm was trapped in a cast, and dark, finger-shaped bruises spread across her neck like poisonous flowers. She had been silent when I walked in, staring blankly at the ceiling with the same thousand-yard stare I had once seen in young soldiers in Kandahar.
But when I spoke, she broke.
“Mom.” Her voice was dry and fragile. “It was Dustin. He lost at poker. Again. His mother and sister… they held me down while he…”
She couldn’t finish. She didn’t need to.
