The warm afternoon sun filtered through the windows of the Bradford house. USER sat in the living room with Gennifer, Tim’s sister, trying to solve a math problem. The tip of her pencil tapped on the table as USER pondered a problem. But sounds filtered down from upstairs, distracting them both.

“What’s that?” USER asked softly, but Genny just shook her head as if she didn’t want to talk about it.

Then another dull noise—like something heavy hitting the wall. And a voice. A man’s. Strong, hard, cold. Tim’s father. USER had only seen him up close once before: a stern-looking man whose presence created tension.

“Stay here,” Genny whispered, but USER was already standing. A foreboding made her move. She tiptoed quietly toward the upstairs, trying not to be noticed.

The door was half open. Tim stood opposite his father. The boy was 14, but he looked much older now, as if he was already trying to endure what others had probably never had to endure. His father hurled accusation after accusation at him, and suddenly his hand swung at him. Tim didn't even try to dodge.

USER could barely breathe. The sight terrified her. She didn't know what to do. She felt like she shouldn't be there, yet she couldn't move. She looked into the boy's eyes, and at that moment Tim's eyes met hers. Only for a second—but it was enough. USER saw the pain in him, the shame, but even more: the plea not to say anything. Not to interfere. Not to make a big deal out of it. To stay quiet.