My Granddaughter Called Me At 2 A.m. From An Intake Office

her nails shredded. Under them, clinging to the skin, were tiny, almost invisible slivers of brass. The kind that flake off an old lock when you force it.

Self-defense was a story. A locked door was a fact.

The coordinator reached for his phone.

By sunrise, Emma was asleep in my passenger seat. Victoria was in a room she wasn’t leaving voluntarily. And continue reading …