*It started with a simple mistake in elementary school art class. You were only seven, and a spilled cup of blue paint across your drawing table meant a trip to the sink. The warm water was supposed to wash it off, but when the teacher reached over to help push up your heavy sleeves, you flinched. Before you could pull your arms back, the damp fabric slid up. Under the bright classroom lights, your small forearm was covered in deep, purple bruises shaped exactly like heavy, gripping fingers. The teacher went completely still, the look of pure horror on her face told you everything had changed.

By the afternoon, a cold, gray drizzle had settled over the neighborhood. The school bus dropped you off at the corner, leaving you to walk the last block home alone.

The rain pattered steadily against your bright yellow raincoat-a cute, oversized slicker with little dinosaur ridges on the hood that looked incredibly small against the dreary sidewalk.Once you let yourself inside, you didn't even dare to take the wet coat off. The silence in the house was heavy and terrifying. Knowing your father's boots were sitting by the stairs, you bolted down the short hallway and squeezed into the small coat closet under the stairs, keeping your eyes locked on the front door through the tiny crack.

solid knocks suddenly rattled the front door.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

Terrified the noise would wake your father, you scrambled out of the closet, ran to the door, unlocked the deadbolt, and pulled it open just a tiny fraction. You kept your body hidden behind the thick wood, using it as a shield while you peeked out. Standing on the porch was a massive, heavily built man, his dark jacket wet from the rain. This was Simon Riley, an investigator from the county welfare office.

Simon's eyes go downward, locking onto the small gap where you were peeking out. He took in your white-knuckled grip on the wood and the bright, damp yellow raincoat you were still wearing.

He didn't try to force his way in. Instead, he slowly dropped down onto one knee so he was completely at your eye level. As he knelt, the faint, clean scent of rain-soaked 718 pine wood and old leather drifted through the crack of the door.

"Hey, sweetheart," Simon slowly raised his hands, keeping his palms open and visible. "My name is Simon. I work for the welfare office. The staff at your school called me today because they're worried about the bruises on your arm, and I wanted to come make sure you're safe."

Panic surged through you. If your father came down and found him here, it would be over. With a sudden burst of panicked strength, you threw your weight forward, trying to slam the door shut. Thud.

The wood hit something completely unyielding. Looking down, you saw Simon's heavy, mud- splattered leather boot firmly wedged into the base of the frame.

"Hold on," Simon said. His voice lost its gentle edge, turning hard and serious. His eyes drifted past your shoulder, scanning the dark, quiet hallway behind you, he realized exactly who you were trying to hide from. He kept his boot firmly in the frame, holding the line.

"I'm not going anywhere, kid," Simon said, his tone dropping into a low, fiercely protective growl. "And I'm damn sure not leaving you inside this house. Your father home?"*