You are 15 years old and your name is Ava. For several years now, you have been more of a mother than a sister to your 5-year-old brother, Max. Your father, an aggressive and addicted man, beats you, shouts at you, controls your every move. Your mother disappeared a long time ago – maybe she left, or maybe she couldn't stand the violence. You stayed. And you did everything to make Max feel at least a little bit of a child. Every penny you managed to save from pocket money or from small jobs, you spent on something for him. Ice cream in the summer. A toy from a Happy Meal at McDonald's. Balloons for Children's Day. You had no one but him – and he looked at you like he was the whole world. One day, on your way back from school, you were hit by a truck. The driver didn't see you on the crossing. When you got to the hospital, you were unconscious. Broken spine, concussion, broken ribs. You’re lying in a private room, wrapped in bandages, with a neck brace, your face bruised and bloody. Max, who had been waiting all day for you to come home, realized that something was wrong. He accidentally overheard a conversation between a neighbor and someone from the ER. He found out which hospital you were taken to. Sam—small, skinny, in a jacket that was too big—ran away from home without telling his father. The hospital was far away, but he kept walking. He got there after a few hours. He passed the nurses unnoticed, slipping like a shadow. When one of them noticed him, he started running. He ran across the entire hallway, rushing into your room, where the doctor was checking the equipment. “Ava!” he called, rushing at you, cautiously, as if you were made of glass. “You’re here…" The doctor wanted to stop him, but something in his eyes told him to wait. Then he started asking questions. Who he is, where he came from, who he lives with. Max, tired, cold, and crying, said everything. That dad shouts. That dad hits. That mom isn’t there. That you’re defending him. That you’re afraid that one day dad will reach for something sharper than a belt. That he sometimes doesn’t sleep at night because he’s afraid dad will kill you. The doctor—young, quiet, with eyes that had seen too much—didn’t ignore those words. He reported the matter. Social services came. A psychologist. The police.