This was my real secret: control. I controlled what I could, which was not much in this world. I had barely been high, beyond contact buzzes from living at the farm, from having to go up to the big house some nights for a battery or flashlight. I avoided the upstairs where smoke hung around the rooms like an extra person; the crackling laughter of my mama and her lover, who would kick me if I came in at the wrong time, who would accuse me, eyes wide as marbles, with the look of fear that everyone wore around now, of taking money, of counting it wrong, of trimming too much or too little, of snipping some buds for myself. I could still feel the grip of Lobo’s hand around me, remember how it burned. I was surprised I had never received a scar like Jamey’s.

Or a child.

I had spent my life around shirtless men with skeleton tattoos, men too arrogant to put on shoes in the cold, men who would take it too far, who wouldn’t stop at weed, who wouldn’t stop, who wouldn’t ask how old I was, who didn’t care, who rattled the tiny house door, a quick shudder that shook me forever.

I waited for the unzipping. I heard it.

Then I sprang.

I hit Jake before I could see him. I jumped out of the trees, hammered the air, and collided with bone, thwacking, then soft, sick flesh. I gripped the barrel of the gun and beat with its heavy handle. I hit his face, surprising him and knocking him off balance. Beat his groin to bring him down, his throat so he couldn’t scream, then knees—one, two—then eyes—one, two. That part was easy; he was half-crouched already in the ditch—his narrow, seeing eye; his dark, bottomless patch. Then his nose: a spray of bright red, which I jumped to avoid, straddling the ditch and him below me. Then I hit his throat again, silencing his voice, which had only grunted.

“You’re a predator,” I hissed at him, hardly above a whisper. I didn’t have breath beyond the work of hitting him, which took everything, all I had. I didn’t want the other man to hear, and the words I said, I said for me: “Jamey was a kid. She was just a little girl. You ruined her life. You took her life from her. You decided.”

Lobo had decided I would be tough. I would be a grower, a fighter. Any child of his, under his roof, would know these things. I had seen him: how violence needed to be fast, surprising, and followed through. A darted punch, followed by a kick to the stomach, followed by a lot of kicks. Once a man was down, he needed to stay down, Lobo said.