Her heart stutters, and her breath stops in her throat. Daniel turns in his seat and grabs her right hand.

“I’m here and I’m not leaving,” he says, squeezing her hand. “You’re not alone.” He presses his palm against her cheek, and she leans into it, letting out a shaky breath.

She’d screamed and dodged Alan’s fist as he shouted at her in a drunken rage. She was sixteen and her own rage was starting to outgrow her fear. She ran from her small bedroom and made it to the living room, where she saw a bottle opener with a screw on one end. Alan was stumbling from behind her, yelling and screaming. She grabbed the corkscrew and turned but he reached her first and when he pushed her, the corkscrew dug into the couch.

“This isn’t forever. Just until we figure out what to do next,” Daniel reassures her with his hands still holding her face. She blinks until he comes back into focus. “Let me get your clothes,” he says, before smiling and climbing out of the car. She hears him open the trunk before returning with a large, light sweater and some baggy sweatpants. “I think Zach was going for easy and comfortable.”

“It’s perfect,” Lynell says, accepting Daniel’s help to sit up slightly. Daniel helps her pull his shirt off, stretching the sleeve so no part touches her injured hand. She blushes despite him carrying her earlier, naked and vulnerable, and despite their three years together.

Putting the sweater on is more difficult, and she bites her lip hard to keep from yelping at the pain. “Sorry,” he mutters. She waves her good hand in the air and tugs the hem of the sweater down before helping him guide her legs through the pant legs. When they’re finished, Daniel climbs out of the car and looks toward the house. “Well, I’ll be back.” He moves to turn back but Lynell grabs his hand. “What?”

“Take me with you.”

“Lynell . . .”

“He’s going to take the car, so I’ll have to see him anyway. Trust me. I need to go with you.”

Daniel stares at her, ready to argue. She rubs the inside of his wrist with her thumb. She nods, trying to convince him and herself that she can handle this.

Finally, Daniel concedes. “Okay,” he says before helping her out. She winces as he picks her up and sets her on the ground. Her legs shake and she has to lean against him, but she can walk.

The front door has never looked so far away.

She’d drawn the purple, uneven face on the kitchen door when she was eight. She knew she shouldn’t, knew she would get punished, knew the smiling face was a lie, but she’d done it. She’d done it out of spite, because when her mom bought her a coloring book, Alan had complained that she was too old, so he set it on fire. So, Lynell decided to make the walls her coloring book. When Alan caught her—she’d expected no less—he hit the back of her legs hard, took away all her markers and pens and pencils, and made her stand in the doorway of the kitchen for six hours, missing lunch and dinner, watching him eat despite her mom’s teary-eyed pleas.