Some Quiet Place

without bruises.
    Tim fiddles with the halter some more, his expression becoming thoughtful. “Who’s your partner, sweetheart?”
    I hesitate, assessing the situation from every angle, trying to figure out which one will let me off with the least pain. “Joshua Hayes.” I pause. No reaction from Tim. “He lives on a farm across town with his dad. His mom—”
    “I know who he is, Elizabeth.” Tim finally sets the halter down on his workbench and I notice for the first time how his beefy fists are clenched. His knuckles are white. “Funny thing … ” My father takes a step toward me. I don’t move. “Joshua Hayes just called the house ten minutes ago, left a message with your mom. Said something’s come up and he can’t work on your ‘project’ tomorrow. Weren’t you with him ten minutes ago?” Tim moves even closer, until he’s backed me up against a wall.
    I look up at him, blinking. Fight or flight fills my being. And for some reason I find myself choosing to hold my ground. “Where do you think I was?” I question.
    He studies me, expression still unfathomable. “You know, I didn’t notice at first. It took me a while to make any connections. But the least I can figure, you changed after that car accident. The kid I knew was just gone. I don’t know what happened to you, but the doctor said you were fine, we were just worrying too much. I don’t think so,” he repeats.
    Clearly, I’m not going to be able to get any more out of him. I try to look afraid. “I could try harder to be that person you knew. I will try.”
    “If I’ve learned anything in this godforsaken world, it’s that people don’t change. Look at me.” He laughs softly, and I smell the faint tang of alcohol on his breath. “I tried to be a good husband, I tried to be a good dad. When I couldn’t do that, I tried to be a good farmer. Nope, people sure don’t change!”
    His words strike a chord somewhere inside me. He’s wrong; people can change. They can. Now is not the time for argument, however. Now is the time to appeal to his humanity. “Dad—”
    The word coming from my lips seems to anger him even further. “You’re just like your mother,” he says, grabbing my shoulder quicker than I can jump out of his reach. “Always lying!”
    I shove him without thinking, and my resistance infuriates him further. Swift as a snake, he bangs my head against the wall. Reflex tears spring to my eyes. More instincts shriek at me. Run, claw, reason .
    “ … would you lie to me about where you’ve been unless you were with a guy?” Tim is demanding. “Did you sleep with him? How long has this been going on? What if you get pregnant, slut? Huh? Do you expect your mother and me to clean up the messes you make?” The questions come at me relentlessly, each one punctuated with a head slam. My vision blurs, the first sign that I’m going to lose consciousness. Impulse takes over again, and my fist lashes out before I can stop it, connects with flesh. Tim stumbles back, bellowing.
    “I wasn’t with anyone,” I attempt to say. But the words are lost when Tim utters another cry of rage. He seizes my arm and throws me to the floor. I start to scramble up but he steps on my hand with his heavy boot, and we both hear something crunch. I let out a scream of pain, and I can tell that the sound gratifies him. He bends, lifting me by my throat. With my good hand I reach to scratch his eyes out, but he jerks away just in time. Kicking is pointless, but I try anyway.
    “You’re part of this family,” he says through his teeth, shaking me. “I take you to church every Sunday. Where did I go wrong? Why am I cursed with a daughter like you?”
    I couldn’t say anything even if I wanted to—Tim’s grip is too tight. I see now that I shouldn’t have said anything. I should have taken his abuse, endured the hits, the insults, his revolting breath and sweaty palms.
    No. Fight or flight . Once again I gravitate to fight. Is it really instinct that urges me to it? Has to be. Before I comprehend what’s happening, my nails are digging into Tim’s hand. He releases me, making yet another animal-like sound that’s part grunt, part growl. I tumble to the dirt, scraping my knees and the heels of my hands, jarring my injury. The pain nearly consumes me. No , I think again. Quickly I glance around for a weapon, something to deter him. The manure shovel—
    Tim comes at me from behind. Then his fist is in my hair and he’s