Miri was young and green back then. Not reckless exactly — just brave enough to be stupid about it.

  "I remember that night shift like it was yesterday. I wish I didn't. Like ink on my hands I can't scrub off — not in all the years I've been on the force."

  The radio kept cutting out, dispatch bleeding through static, the patrol car hitting every pothole on the road like Jorge was doing it on purpose. We were headed to a domestic — woman and child, drunk husband threatening to gut them both. I was the only one in that car who gave a damn. I could hear the woman crying through the receiver, and it crawled under my skin. Jorge? Jorge was busy personally testing the suspension of a government vehicle. With his ass.

  When we finally crawled up to the house — at the speed of a depressed tortoise — I told him to come with me. Serious situation. Needed backup. Jorge said the car had broken down and someone had to fix it. Then proceeded to dig through the trunk doing absolutely nothing.

  I never reported him. Not my style — I don't rat. But Jorge made sure to have his opinions anyway. Women on the force. Damn feminists. He'd say it to his buddies when he showed up drunk, thinking I couldn't hear. Thinking I cared.

  I thought about that, sprinting to the house. It made me angrier. Good. Angry was useful.

  I vaulted the low fence, pressed myself against the wall, listened. Dead quiet — except for a child crying somewhere inside. That sound didn't leave room for waiting around for someone to open the door politely.

  I went through the kitchen window.

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  I landed face-first into a full collection of scattered cutlery. Plates, forks, knives — the kind of landing that makes you question your life choices. It hurt like hell. I got up anyway.

  The living room door. I pushed it open slow.

  Dark. Dangerously dark. The only light was the dim orange bleed of street lamps through the curtains, just enough to hint at something horrible. The smell hit first — iron and blood and cheap alcohol, thick enough to choke on, nowhere to go with the windows shut tight.

  I moved toward the crying. That was all I had.

  I stepped in something warm.

  The soft splash made the man turn his head. Made the child go silent for one second. But he was too drunk to make sense of it in the dark. He turned back.

  I moved.

  The little girl was in the corner, four years old, curled up as small as she could make herself. My chest did something painful when I saw her. She was old enough to understand exactly what had happened in this room. I reached for her without warning — she screamed louder, eyes locked on my face in pure terror.

  I thought she was afraid of a stranger.

  I was wrong.

  The father was already behind me. Knife aimed at my spine. He swung — drunk and sloppy — and the blade snapped against the concrete wall. I ducked just in time.

  That's why she was screaming.

  She'd been trying to warn me.

  The girl grabbed onto my shoulders with both hands, small fingers digging in, wiping her face on my uniform, squeezing her eyes shut against everything around her.

  Then Jorge finally showed up. Tackled the man to the floor, wrenched his arms back.

  His lazy ass hit the light switch on the way down.

  The room exploded into harsh white light.

  Stab wounds. Too many to count. The woman on the floor, the blood spread wide and dark beneath her, like something had burst. The emptiness in her eyes.

  "I froze. Child pressed against my chest, my back to the room, like if I didn't look it wasn't real. It was horrifying because — I hadn't expected to see all of it at once. I don't think I understood yet, in that moment, how bad it really was."