Louise couldn’t have imagined the sun slanting so suddenly through the windshield of Harvey Stoner’s car. She couldn’t have imagined her husband would be hiding in the blind spot of her watering eyes. Harvey had just stepped out of the car to open her door. It had been Harvey Stoner she had expected to see open the car door and hold out his hand to her. But she had looked up, shielding her face from the sun, and it was Baptiste who hauled her from Harvey Stoner’s car, Baptiste pinching her elbow so hard she felt the sting of her funny bone. She was almost smiling, almost glad that Baptiste had come for her. When she entered her grandmother’s house her eyes pulsed blind in Baptiste’s shadow.

She remembered Baptiste had closed the kitchen door and had fisted the hook to latch it. She heard the low rumble of Harvey Stoner’s car leaving. Even Harvey Stoner could not save her. She said nothing to Baptiste. She knew there was nothing to say. In her grandmother’s house she could hear the ragged pull of Baptiste’s breath. She stood still, hoping her stillness was a remedy for the tremors that heaved Baptiste. She felt the blunt darkness of the room, the coffeepot dulled by fire, the round lip of the sink, the small thick scissors her sister used to cut catalog paper dolls.

Baptiste cracked his hand to the crown of her skull with a heat that resembled comfort. She saw a crackle of light falling to her knees. She saw the ink-pen cross and then her name on Baptiste’s brown hands. She was able to bite him hard enough to taste the liquor of his blood. When Baptiste kicked her wrist she realized she was still holding the beer Harvey Stoner had given her. She saw the splat of gold as beer bubbled out of the bottle, arching over Baptiste, striking him, spilling on the floor around him like sour light. Baptiste was drunk, drunk to falling, his eyes smoke-hazed, hard-squinting, fixed on her as if she were a distant object. She saw Baptiste holding the broken bottle by the neck, lifting and jabbing, weaving. Mean.