Her father hits her when he's drinking, hits her because he knows she won't tell. He is her father, after all, the only parent she knows. But this time, she's had enough. She strikes back, smashes things - dishes crash against walls and jagged pieces sail like shrapnel. They put her in the hospital. A mental break, they say. Broken is all she's ever known.

We sit together a few weeks later- a small office, scratchy chairs. She has dyed her hair again, the blue-black favored by rock stars, eyeliner dark on her pale face. She frets about returning to school, fears her teachers will treat her like some sort of freak. I assure her that we won't, and she reaches for a hug. Her whole body tenses, electric, a lifetime of flinching impossible to undo. Twenty-four hours later, she slips out, runs away.

She's been gone three days. No one knows where. When I inquire, I'm told the police are still looking, their leads all run dry. On Monday, I swallow my fear and enter the classroom, avoid looking at the chair that I'm sure will be vacant. I draw a ragged breath as I spot the back of her head. My heart breaks like a vase hurled against a door.

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