“I didn’t mean—I just didn’t want you telling anyone else about Floyd. But you could have told me.”

“You said not to tell,” she repeats stubbornly.

“Oh, God, Cassie, I’m sorry—I’ve screwed up big time. I should’ve realized what was happening, but I didn’t think he’d ever hit you ... how dumb is that? I’m sorry.”

“Make me Cream of Wheat?” she says.

Comfort food. I go downstairs, walking around cold chicken fingers and wilted roses on my way to the kitchen, and make her a big bowl of Cream of Wheat with maple syrup. She eats some of it, then falls asleep, clutching Rover.

I slap peanut butter on bread and eat it standing by the sink.

Roses and food go in the compost bucket, plate shards into the garbage. Jigsaw pieces—turquoise pond daubed with ketchup—back on the card table. A bucket of soapy water takes care of the rest of the ketchup and the sweet-and-sour sauce. I don’t care if I ever see a chicken finger again.

After dumping the water down the sink and rinsing out the bucket, I go back upstairs. Behind Floyd’s bedroom door, I can hear canned laughter from the small TV they keep on their bureau. I’d bet the stash he won’t tell Opal what happened tonight.

I fall down on my bed, intending to read, and wake up at three with the light still on. Across the hall, Cassie’s crying again.

I stumble into her room and hold her while she tells me about the monster who was chasing her, his axe dripping rose petals that turned into blood. After I cuddle her for a while, she goes back to sleep. But now I’m wide-awake.

Back in my room, I take out a piece of paper and a pen, and stare at the paper for a long time. Stray thoughts meander through my brain. Like, I didn’t use karate against Floyd last night. Like, am I nuts to prefer punches to slaps, slaps that make me feel as if I’m Cassie’s age again? Like, how can he hit his fouryear-old daughter?

No answer to that one. So I switch gears to the question I’ve been avoiding ever since I realized that I can’t leave home when I’m sixteen because I’ve been landed with a new job twenty-four seven, no pay—to keep Cassie safe, to protect her the best I can. The question being, do I have any other options?

Leave anyway and take her with you.

And support both of us on my savings, which at the moment, counting future lawn mowing, amount to just over $800? Daycare alone would eat that up in no time. Add grub and a roof over our heads? Can't be done.

Rat on Floyd. Tell the cops. Or the social worker who has an office upstairs in the mall.