She turned at the sound of my suitcase on the gravel.

“Eva, you’re home ear—” and the word died in her throat.

The watering can slipped out of her hand.

For a second she simply stared, and then she was across the courtyard with her arms around me, her hands hovering at my swollen cheek, afraid to touch it.

“Who did this,” she said, and it was not a question so much as a sound torn out of her.

“Who did this to my daughter.”