Then Maya made a small sound.
I came back to myself.
Rage is easy.
Evidence is harder.
Evidence is what survives rich people.
I wrapped Maya in the old quilt from the laundry room and helped her onto the kitchen bench.
Her fingers clung to my sleeve.
“Mom, don’t call the police in their neighborhood,” she whispered. “Please. Marcus said they’d say I fell.”
I believed her.
Not because I thought every officer could be bought.
Because I had worked too many hospital intake shifts to confuse paperwork with justice.
I had seen people with money arrive already telling the room what happened.
I had seen injured women go quiet when the first official question sounded like an accusation.
So I did not dial 911 first.
I washed my hands, dried them on a dish towel, and took three photographs at 4:14 a.m.
One of Maya’s throat.
One of her swollen eye.
