It caught the back of my left hand and pinned it against the granite.

The sound belonged in a slaughterhouse — a wet crunch of shattering bone, distinct even under the alarms.

The pain didn’t register at first; it was too massive to process. A wave of ice-cold shock washed over my scalp. My knees gave out and I went down to the floor, cradling my left hand against my chest.

The second and third metacarpals were visibly deformed, the skin swelling into dark purple, the knuckles crushed into a jagged ruin.

My assisting hand. My livelihood. My identity. Gone in a fraction of a second.

I looked up through hot tears, gasping, an animal whimper escaping me. I looked at David. I begged him with my eyes to call 911, to stop his mother, to do anything.