I pause, rattled, and then he strikes, one wide hand popping me hard in the center of the stomach. It’s one push, but he’s got eight inches and eighty pounds on me. And I fly. Feet sliding, body tumbling back. My head smacks—I hear it more than I feel it at first, but the pain comes. A great, wet bloom of it wrenching a cry out of my throat. I’m on the linoleum staring at the dirty alcove under the cabinets. I see a twist tie. An old cap from a milk carton. Declan’s shoes.
