I would not have to pass the cafeteria crowd.

The nurse, Mrs.

Hall, took one look at my face and closed the door behind us.

She checked my lip, my ribs, the bruising around my shoulder and neck.

When she asked permission to photograph the injuries for the report, I froze.

“Do you have to?” I asked.

“Only because I want this documented correctly,” she said.

“So no one can minimize it later.”

That was another thing I had not expected: adults who were already preparing to believe me.

The photos were awful.

In them, I looked younger than fifteen.

Small.

Hollow-eyed.

Startled.

Mrs.

Hall wrote notes while Mr.

Benson contacted child protective services and the school resource officer.

Ms.

Carter stayed in the room the entire time, grading papers at the side table so I would not feel watched, but every few minutes she looked up and asked whether I needed water or a break.

I kept waiting for the mood to change.

For someone to decide this was too messy.

Too complicated.

For someone to tell me families fight and stepfathers get frustrated and boys exaggerate and maybe I should not ruin a household over one bad night.

Nobody said anything like that.

An hour later, a caseworker named Alana Price arrived with a legal pad and a navy coat dusted with melting snow.

She was younger than I expected, maybe early thirties, with tired eyes and an efficient voice.

Beside her came Officer Ramirez, the school resource officer, who stayed near the door and spoke only when necessary.

Alana interviewed me in Mr.

Benson’s office.

She asked clear questions.

Had this happened before? Yes.

How often? I did not know exactly.

Enough that I had learned the sound of Michael’s footsteps on the stairs.

Did my mother intervene? No.

Did she know? Yes.

Were there weapons in the home? No guns that I knew of, but there were belts, his work boots, his hands, and sometimes that felt like enough.

I told her about the PS5 under my bed.

I told her about the older bruises that were harder to explain.

I told her about the time Michael had shoved me into the garage wall because I forgot to take the trash out, and the time he held the back of my neck so hard over a worksheet that my eyes watered onto the paper.

I told her my mother always said the same things: stop provoking him, do better, don’t make him angry.

Alana’s expression stayed professional, but I saw her jaw tighten when I said that.

After the interview, she stepped into the hallway with Officer Ramirez.

I heard only fragments.

Visible injuries.

Immediate danger.

Emergency removal.

The words made my stomach turn to ice.

Emergency removal meant I would not be going home after school.

The thing I had wanted for months suddenly stood in front of me, huge and real and terrifying.

“What happens now?” I asked when Alana came back.

“Right now, you are not going home with them,” she said gently.

“We’re going to take you to be examined at Riley’s pediatric ER, and then we’re going to place you somewhere safe tonight.

We’ll work through the rest from there.”

“Where?”

She looked down at her notes.

“Do you have any