Outside, the night air was icy as I ran across the road to Nash’s house. I came to a stop in his front yard, considering a moment. The lights were on, and his front door was hanging wide open but, thankfully, his daddy’s truck wasn’t in the drive. My heart was beating so hard in my chest, I was afraid it might crack a rib, but I continued up the front path, taking the steps two at a time before coming to a stop on the porch.

“N-Nash?” I called, my voice wavering despite how desperately I tried to remain strong. “Nash?” I yelled again, slightly louder. But when he didn’t answer, I took a hesitant step over the threshold, coming to stop dead in my tracks, gasping when I saw the state of the living room.

Picture frames had been torn from their hooks in the walls. Fist-sized holes gaped in the drywall. The base of a ceramic lamp was smashed on the hardwood floor. And there, in the middle of it all, was Nash cowered in the far corner, hunched into a ball, sobbing quietly.

Instinctively, I ran to him, falling to my knees on the floor before him. I wanted to wrap him in my arms but I didn’t know how badly he was hurt and I didn’t want to make his pain worse. So, I stopped myself, gently reaching a hand out and placing it on his shoulder.

“Nash?” I whispered, tears pricking my eyes.

He lifted his head so slow, and I was taken aback by the sight of him. He was bleeding from a wound just above his left eye. The right one was almost completely closed over it was so swollen. But most shocking of all were the red welts in the shape of obvious hands, imprinted around his neck.

“W-what happened?” I asked through a sob of my own.

“My dad. He— He f-found the liquor …” Nash cried, coughing a little as he rubbed at the red marks at his throat.

“What liquor?” I asked, shaking my head in confusion as I gently rubbed his arm.

“The liquor I took from Harley’s house so his daddy wouldn’t get drunk and embarrass him at the game tonight,” he sobbed, swiping almost violently at the tears on his cheeks as if he hated the fact that’d he’d been reduced to such emotion.

I had no idea what he was talking about, but it didn’t matter. All that mattered was that he was hurt. Nash was in pain. And I had to help him. He needed me. “Where is he? Your father?” I asked, looking around at the state of the house, frightened his daddy might come back.

Nash shrugged. “He left.”

“Stay here,” I ordered. “I’m going to go pack you a bag. You’re coming to my house.”

“What about your momma?”

It wasn’t that Momma didn’t like Nash. In fact, she loved him like her own. But she knew a long time ago that there was a lot more to mine and Nash’s friendship. Maybe she even knew before the two of us had even figured it out. So, Nash Harris sleeping over was not allowed. I had a feeling if she knew the truth of what happened between him and his daddy on a daily basis, she would have cleared out the room above our garage and moved him right in. But she didn’t know, because I promised Nash I wouldn’t ever tell a soul about his daddy beating on him. Looking at him now though, I wish I’d broken that promise a long time ago.