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pointed out the paramedic and lowered my voice. “Please, Derek—you of all people should understand.”
    I turned to go inside but a policewoman’s hand was heavy on my shoulder, stopping me from navigating the spray of wine-colored shards at the back entrance. I looked past her and stared at the front windows. They were trashed. The EMT walked over and told her I was disoriented. He was probably right, but I didn’t let on. Derek took him aside. For the next ten minutes, I answered the officer’s questions but my memory was spotty. I clearly remembered every single sound I’d heard, but didn’t know why my attacker had blacked out or how the windows had gotten shattered or how I’d ended up outside. They finally allowed me to go home.
    Derek put his arm around my waist and walked me to his car. “Edwards, you’d better be being straight with me about how you feel ’cause you look like hell and I’m freakin’ out!”
    “Dude—see, stand, hear, speak. I’m tired and my head’s pounding like a mother. Swear to God, I’m not gonna die on you. I just need to rest.”
    “Then I’m gonna have to wake you up every hour.” He buckled me in.
    My eyelids closed before we’d cleared the intersection.
    Beige walls, generic seashell prints, Nick yelling at the TV on the other side of the wall: Derek’s room. The drapes were closed but sunshine broke through the part, drawing a long, thick line across the carpet. Late afternoon.
    Pictures flooded my mind, getting crossed: the police, the heat, the beating, my arrival to work, the beating, the panic, the cold, the dwarf, the boots, the medic, the beating, glassy eyes, the mist, the beating.
    I slowly sat up and my head throbbed such that it felt like a rubber band was constricting my brain. If that wasn’t enough, I caught my reflection in the wall mirror to my right, and rammed my fist to my mouth to stop the scream. Thick, sticky ribbons of blood enameled my hair on one side, from the top of my head to my neck, where sections were glued to my shirt. I couldn’t believe the image staring back at me, an open mouth, fingers touching gore. I looked at the pillow. Thank God. It was covered with a towel.
    “You’re awake. Finally. I’ve been scared stupid.” Derek put down Savvy Investor Quarterly and rose from the sofa across the room. “Head wounds bleed a lot. That’s what the paramedic told me. That’s what I’ve been telling myself.”
    “It’s not that bad,” I lied. “Why didn’t you take me home?”
    “’Cause I didn’t want Sarah to go into heart failure and your couch sucks. What can I do? How do you feel?”
    “I have a headache and I don’t wanna see any more mirrors, but I feel okay.” I struggled to avert my eyes from my reflection. “Who was that guy? Why—”
    “While you were talking to the sheriff, I hung out and listened to the other cops. From what I picked up, they have no idea what was goin’ on with him. As far as they could tell nothing had been stolen and there was no forced entry. He doesn’t even have a record.”
    “I think he was high.” I covered my face with my hands. “As soon as I heard noises, I knew I had to haul for the door but I didn’t. I could’ve made it out. I should’ve made it out.”
    “It’s not your fault.”
    “No, I know.” I picked at the collar of my shirt. “This is grim. Can I borrow?”
    He took his old tennis jersey from his dresser and handed it to me.
    In his bathroom, I pried the blood-coated neckline of my tee from the crime scene that was my hair and peeled off the shirt. There were seven green and purplish-brown bruises across my side, chest, and stomach. One was square like the heel of a boot. Bruises? But he kicked me so hard. It hurt so bad. I couldn’t breathe. This can’t be. It can’t. I pressed the heels of my hands to my forehead so I could better remember the sequence of events and connect the dots, but the dots were all misnumbered.
    Baffled, I dropped Derek’s