After the first time he’d driven her to the emergency room, she’d discovered him the next day sobbing into his childhood bunny. When he said never again—he was so sorry—she’d believed him. Then, he broke her jaw.
She’d been going through his pants pockets ever since, scrabbling together enough money for a bus ticket: a nickel here, a quarter there, praying he wouldn’t notice.
Now she fingered the side seam of the bunny’s body, put her thumbs inside the almost invisible hole, and ripped it in half, sending a shower of coins onto the table.
She began to count.