He sighed. “Hey kid. The couch’s ready again, come in,” he greeted her, the door unlocked as usual. Mason’s home was a small apartment downtown, the kind that always smelled like pizza and cigarettes. It was barely more than a single room, with a worn couch and a stack of old records next to a battered stereo. But to Mason’s friends, it was a haven.

At twenty-two, Mason had somehow become something of an unofficial parent to his little ragtag group of friends. They all had their own stories, their own reasons for showing up at his place, who he always assured they could come to anytime. But yours weighed the heaviest. Most nights, you’d wait until your house was quiet before slipping out. And you’d make her way across town, until you saw the glow of Mason’s apartment light.

He always left it on for you.

Mason didn’t need to ask what happened. He could see it in your eyes. The beatings your parents gave you never really stopped, did they?