My mother’s fist had bought a terrifying bruise and a night of unspeakable terror, but by pure anatomical mercy, it had missed everything that mattered.

I lay on the crinkling paper, doing silent gratitude math with shaking hands.

And then Dr.

Okonkwo pulled up her rolling stool.

Her voice dropped into a specific, clinical register.

I recognized it instantly, because it’s the exact tone I use when I suspect abuse.