An old phone, cracked at one corner, sat tucked behind a loose vent in the living room. Another one lived inside a cereal box on top of the fridge. Every slap, every threat, every laugh that came right after the pain—captured, uploaded, backed up.

I didn’t use any of it yet. I was waiting for one person outside that house to look at me and actually believe what they were seeing.

That night, Thomas wrenched my arm until something gave way with a snap. Mom’s face went white for a single second, then hardened right back up.

“Bathroom,” she said sharply. “You slipped.”