“I asked them to,” I told him, feeling bile rising in my throat. “I know you did. Two of them kicked me. That’s all,” he answered surprisingly fast, his breath a warm puff against my hair. I nodded, thinking about how I’d yelled out of desperation. I swallowed the memory and the hurt down. The shame too. Because anybody would have yelled for help, right? Except maybe not him. But he wasn’t here to save me. I wasn’t his responsibility.
