It lands in my chest like a fist.
She lowers the mug a little. “Why did you help me?”
Straight to it.
Because I looked at you once and knew I wasn’t walking away.
I keep my voice flat. “Because I know what it looks like when nobody’s coming.”
Her eyes lift fast.
Stillness settles between us.
“My stepfather and stepbrother sold me,” she says quietly.
No hesitation. No dressing it up.
My grip tightens once on the mug.
“I figured something happened.”
Her mouth twists. “That obvious?”
“Some things are.”
She looks away at that.
For a second I think she’ll shut down. Then she takes another sip and stares into the cup instead of at me.
“My mom died two years ago,” she says. “After that, it was just me taking care of everything. Bills. Food. Cleaning. My stepfather, Earl, drank. Travis, my stepbrother...” Her fingers tighten on the mug. “Travis liked making me feel small.”
My jaw locks.
I say nothing.
Sometimes silence is kinder than whatever else is waiting in a man’s mouth.
“I told them I was leaving,” she says. “They gave me some orange juice.” Her laugh is short and ugly. “That’s the last thing I remember before everything went soft.”
Something cold moves through me.
Kitchen table. One drunk bastard. One smirking coward. One girl trying to get out.
I can see it too easy.
“My parents died when I was ten,” I hear myself say.
Her head lifts.
“My brother too. Car wreck.” The words come old and flat. Safer that way. “My grandparents took me in after.”
She stays quiet.
I look past her, out the window, at the trees instead of her face.
“Should’ve been better than what it was,” I say. “Wasn’t. House ran on fists and fear.”
She studies me for a second. Not pitying. Thank Christ.
