Her alarm clock ticked; it was a school night. Floorboards groaned in the hallway. The door handle clicked. A yellow beam from the nightlight down the hall invaded through the door aperture. Burt’s silhouette crossed it. The door closed silently, and her father’s shadow melded into others. She smelled dried sweat—the scent of redness baked into his forearms and dirt below his fingernails. The most terrifying pungency was dried urine from his shorts. His hand found her foot. Guinevere rolled sideways and squeezed her eyelids tight. “This isn’t right,” Gwen said. She lay with her arm over the edge of her bed. Her fingers touched the hilt of a paring knife, tucked between mattresses. She’d chosen the knife not to kill, but to wound. While he was inside her, she capitulated. “This is wrong,” she said again. He was silent. He was a hand on her shoulder, arm below her neck. He was a hand under her breast. He was an acrid smell. He was pain inside. He shuddered as she sniffled.
