She could smell the dry sweet scent of the hay and feel the sharp prickles where the stem ends pressed into her bare arms and legs. Her chest throbbed where the razor strap had fallen, and her muscles were stiff from the whipping and from sleep. Her eyes were swollen and sore. She sat crouched in a corner, arms wrapped around her knees, her heart thumping with the nearness of discovery. The dread of it and the wish for it.

He opened the barn door and came in, pausing, looking around. She heard the soft thud of bare feet on the wooden floor. There was a moment's silence. Then he began to climb the ladder into the loft. She waited. His head appeared above the top rung, the curly chestnut-bright hair with the cowlick she liked to tease him about. In the gathering dusk his face looked younger than fifteen, and scared.

"Kate, you up here?"

"I'm not coming down."

"Ma's worried about you."

"Let her worry, then. Why don't she ever take up for us kids? Why does she let him slam us around like this?"

"Aw, Katie, you know she can't do nothin'. He'd whup her if she tried to." Paul swung himself up into the loft and came toward her, walking unsteadily on the soft piled hay. He looked skinny and uncertain in his patched jeans and flapping shirttail, his eyes wide open, like a cat's, against the gloom. "I aim to kill him soon's I get big enough."

"I'll help you. I'd like to kill him myself, the mean ol' bastard."

Paul's eyes narrowed. "Did he hurt you bad?"

"Just about killed me, I guess."

"Where does it hurt?"

She was silent, ashamed. There were places you weren't supposed to show a boy or talk to him about, not even when it was Paul—just like there were things boys weren't supposed to let girls know about. Ma had impressed that on her when she was a little tiny thing. Some parts of your body are dirty. You didn't let anyone see them, or even touch them yourself except when you were taking a bath. Never, even, when you were lying in bed at night waiting to go to sleep—no matter how good it felt. Most of all, you never let a boy touch you there. Not even Paul, who crawled into bed with you when lightning snaked across the sky (and Pa would have killed them both if he'd known but she didn't care, she felt strong and brave when she was comforting Paul).

But there was blood on the front of her dress where the cuts had trickled down, and there were the ripped places where the leather lash had cut the material. Paul looked, his eyes widening. He reached out a shaking hand, then pulled it back. "Gosh, it looks awful."

"It hurts awful."

“Let’s see.”

He pulled down the front of her dress, the thin fabric tearing in his fingers. It was all she could do to keep from whimpering when he touched the cuts, crusting over now with stiffening blood. Then his fingers moved, touching the little pink buttons she was both proud and ashamed of. "You're getting all swole up here, Katie."