“He’s twisting a playground scrape into something ugly.”

“She won’t sit in her own chair,” I said.

“She’s five,” Elisa said.

“She doesn’t like vegetables either.”

Her hand went back to her hair, smoothing the same place twice.

Marcus stepped between us.

“A man who lives in a one-bedroom and makes films nobody sees is going to tell me how to raise my daughter.”

“I saw the marks,” I said.