There were marks on her upper arm. Four of them in a row, faded to yellow and purple at the edges, with a fifth on the other side. The shape of a hand that had squeezed hard and held on.
Lower down, the skin on her forearms was red and cracked, the way hands get after days in harsh soap and cold water.
Everything in me wanted to shout. I wanted to call Patricia right then and demand an explanation. I wanted to throw that bar of soap across the patio.
But Sofia was watching me the way you watch a dog you’re not sure will bite. And I understood, in that moment, that if I exploded she would shut down, apologize, and tell me it was nothing. She had clearly learned that being quiet was safer.
So I took a slow breath, turned off the tap, and put my jacket around her shoulders.
