I cooled my burning cheek in the soft grass.
Daddy warned that he’d give me something to cry about, and he delivered. Just as he reared back for a second swing, I backed away. His fist swiped past my nose and rammed into the doorjamb. Howling like a wounded dog, he lunged forward and slipped. He collapsed, landing with a thud and crack.
I ran outside, hid between the garage and the old shed—a space too narrow for his bulbous body—and curled up beneath a trash can lid. Shivering in the uncut grass, I dreamed I was a snail.