But it isn’t a question. Not really. Mom is lying sideways across her bed. A knife sticks from her chest, but there’s so much blood—over her, on her sheets. So much, I can’t gauge the extent of her injuries. And that’s when I see you. I realize the wetness I felt on you isn’t sweat. No, you’re covered in blood too. I bring my hands to my face and stumble back. Red. So much red.
