The young woman who still said thank you to people who ignored her.
“Mama,” she whispered.
One hand was pressed to her stomach.
The other hand kept slipping against the porch boards because it was shaking so hard.
I did not scream.
Nurses do not scream when the patient is breathing.
We count.
We assess.
We make fear sit down and wait its turn.
I got my arms under Maya and pulled her into the kitchen.
The overhead light made everything worse because light is honest.
Her lip was split.
One eye had swollen almost shut.
Dark marks circled her throat where someone’s fingers had pressed into skin that I had kissed when she was a baby.
When I touched the side of her sweatshirt, she flinched so hard I had to stop myself from making a sound.
“Maya,” I said, keeping my voice low, “who did this?”
She curled both hands around her lower belly.
