Natasha needed medical attention. The scratches on her face and neck were getting worse, and one eye looked swollen shut. He was a doctor. Why wasn’t he patching her up? He gently opened my palms to examine the reddening skin. “Fuck,” he spat. He turned to Natasha, mouth turned down. The veins in his face pulsated like a roadmap of fury. “Look at what your face did to her hands!” he snarled so loudly that I jumped. Three jaws dropped simultaneously—mine, Linda’s, and Natasha’s. Natasha sputtered, “B-but she hit me!” I was thinking the same thing. I was at fault. Sure, Natasha said horrible
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