I peeked through the door hinge. He was standing stiffly by the coat rack in a thick ribbed turtleneck to hide the red mark on his throat, moving like a reanimated corpse.

The door swung inward and Christine marched in — late fifties, wrapped in a cheap synthetic winter coat, radiating malignant authority. She carried a plastic bag clinking with glass tupperware.

Casseroles and chili. Emergency rations to make sure her boy wasn’t starving under my incompetent care.

She didn’t take off her snowy boots. Her eyes started a tactical sweep of the apartment, hunting for dust, imperfection, weakness.

I stepped out of the bathroom.

I rolled my shoulders forward and collapsed my posture. Locked my hands over my stomach, wringing a dish towel. Chin tucked, no eye contact. At the gym I’d spent months watching Susie, a student trapped in an abusive home.