The transformation was instant. He bolted upright, cleared his throat, slammed shut the incident report he’d been drafting for Priscilla, and grabbed his shoulder radio.

With the desk neutralized, I crossed to the dim corner where my father was shivering. I put a hand on his back and an arm around his waist to help him stand.

His knees buckled. He stumbled left with a sharp gasp of pain, and I shot out a hand to catch his forearm before he hit the linoleum.

The jerk slid the knitted cuff of his sweater up toward his elbow.

My blood turned to ice.

Deep purple bruises formed complete, unmistakable rings around both of his wrists.