Christy-Lynn puts in as many hours as they’ll give her at the doughnut shop. It’s not much, but it helps with food and maybe the lights. Not the rent though. That’s past due again. Two months. But no one talks about that. Because no one knows what happens next. And they don’t seem to care. They just drink and fight and get high.

The yelling from the kitchen ratchets up again, unintelligible except for the occasional string of profanities bleeding under the door. Christy-Lynn cranks up the music another notch and returns to her history book. She knows only too well the folly of intervening in her mother’s squabbles. Not that she hasn’t tried. For her efforts over the years, she’s been kicked, slapped, and punched in the head. But that isn’t the worst of it. The worst is that her mother always ends up resenting her the next day, as if she’d rather wake up with a black eye or a broken jaw than risk driving away her latest Prince Charming.

Suddenly, over the rhythmic grind of “Bullet the Blue Sky,” comes the shattering of glass, three explosions in rapid succession, followed by a howl of rage, and then a bloodcurdling shriek. Christy-Lynn’s history book tumbles to the floor as she scrambles off the bed and down the hall toward the war-torn kitchen. But she’s already too late.

Charlene Parker is sprawled on her knees like a heap of broken kindling, a bloody hand clutched to the left side of her face. Christy-Lynn stares in horror at the steady ooze of red trickling through her mother’s fingers and onto the grimy kitchen floor. Above her, Derrick stands with legs wide apart, weaving a little on his feet.

“What did you do?” Christy-Lynn demands, eyeing the paring knife still clenched in his fist. “She’s covered with blood!”

The blade in his hand is bloody too. Derrick looks down at it, as if surprised to find it there. “Bitch threw a bottle at me,” he growls, revealing bloody gums and a missing incisor. His lip is split like a ripe plum, his chin smeared with blood.

He takes a step forward, but Christy-Lynn is there, blocking him. “Get away from her,” she hurls at him. “Or I’ll do more than that!”

Charlene is sobbing, flailing drunkenly as she struggles to rise, then slips again in the rapidly growing slick of blood. “You cut me!” she wails raggedly. “You cut my face, you drunken bastard!”

It takes some doing, but Christy-Lynn manages to pull her mother to her feet. She’s snarling now and sobbing, the front of her T-shirt smeared a bright, gory red. Christy-Lynn feels a cold whirl of panic, a faintly metallic tang at the back of her throat. She’s never seen so much blood—her mother’s blood—and for a moment, the room sways as she registers the damage.

The left side of Charlene Parker’s face has been flayed from cheek to chin, revealing a gaping span of quivering pink flesh beneath. There will be a scar, Christy-Lynn notes dimly. Her mother’s beautiful face is in ruins.

And then there are sirens wailing outside the apartment complex, blue lights flashing coldly through thin curtains. Fists begin to pound on the apartment door, mingling with Charlene’s desperate wails.

“Police! Open up!”

“Help me!” Charlene bellows over the pounding. “He’s trying to kill me!”

Derrick looks down at the knife in his hand, and for a moment, Christy-Lynn is sure he’s about to lunge at one of them. Desperate men do desperate things. Instead, he drops the knife, frantically casting about for some alternate route of escape. Before he can manage a step, there’s the shriek of splintering wood, and then the police are exploding through the door, guns drawn like on TV. Christy-Lynn’s legs wobble with relief at the sight of them. For once, she’s grateful for nosy neighbors.

Derrick stands stonily as he’s handcuffed and read his rights. Christy-Lynn watches with a kind of savage satisfaction. She’s glad he’s going to jail, glad he won’t be hanging around anymore, freeloading off what little they have. But her satisfaction is short-lived. The medics have arrived and are in the kitchen examining Charlene, starting an IV and tending to her face. The police are in the kitchen too, reading Charlene her rights. Assault, they explain. Not self-defense. Because she threw the bottle at Derrick before he came at her with the knife and not after.

Christy-Lynn is allowed to ride in the ambulance, but when they arrive at the hospital, she’s told to have a seat in the waiting room. She can only watch helplessly as they wheel her mother away. It’s nearly 5:00 a.m. before she’s allowed to see her.

The room is cold and smells of antiseptic. Its stillness after the clamor of the waiting room is unsettling. Charlene lies very still in the slightly raised bed, a tube in her arm, her left cheek swathed in gauze. The doctors have sewn up her face.

Her lids flutter open. “Baby . . .”

Christy-Lynn stares down at the bed, and for a moment, her mother’s face goes blurry. She used to be the most beautiful girl in Monck’s Corner, and now—

“Does it hurt?”

“Not now.” Charlene’s fingers creep to the bandage on the left side of her face. Her nails are still crusted with blood. “They gave me . . . something. Numb.”

“Did they say when you can come home?”

Charlene closes her eyes, turning her head as a pair of tears squeeze from beneath her lashes. “I don’t think I’ll be coming home, baby. Not for a while, at least. I’m in some trouble.”