Just six more goddamned months, Ryan thought to himself as he pedaled his hybrid bike through the streets to Poppy’s house. He’d been working under the table gigs at Georgie’s and saved up for the past two years to buy a car. His mom had promised she’d cosign for a “reasonable sedan,” but that wasn't what he wanted—neither her help, nor a lame four-door car. He had his eyes on a Trans Am, and the day he turned sixteen he was going to buy one for himself. And someday, a motorcycle.

As he pulled up outside Poppy’s house, he jumped off the bike and let it fall into the small patch of grass out front. He started to shrug off his backpack and get ready to knock when he heard it. The bloodcurdling scream from inside shot chills through him.

The knob turned with ease. Thank you, God. Even as he rushed inside, he was aware it was adrenaline and fear that drove him forward. He raced through the little hallway, and glanced at the formal living room Poppy’s family used for storage and a makeshift office. It was empty.

He ran into the kitchen and froze. Poppy’s father was standing menacingly over her as she was huddled in a corner. What is she doing? It looked like Poppy was covering someone, like she was a heroine in an action movie.

Suddenly, he understood what was happening. Poppy was crouched over her mother. Her father’s back was to Ryan, and her mom seemed to be unconscious, sprawled across the linoleum.

Poppy was sobbing, and a few words blubbered out of her. “Why? How could you?” She repeated the phrase over and over again. Poppy grabbed a tea towel from the stove’s handle and tried to tuck it under her mom’s head. When she wiped at her own nose, it brought on a fresh new flow of bright red blood. Poppy’s light blue shirt was drenched in what looked like red rust, and her face was smeared in it.

Ryan couldn’t move.

“You’re both whores!” her father growled. He’d never heard Mr. Baker sound like that before.

“You didn’t have to hit her!” Poppy cried through tears and blood.

“You’re both—both you crazy bitches bring it on yourselves,” Mr. Baker said. He staggered slightly and clutched a kitchen chair for support. Was he drunk?

“Stop it!” Poppy said, and held up a forearm. It was a warning. He’d only seen Poppy act like that on the day they first met, but he knew it instinctively.

“And you! You’re worse than her,” Mr. Baker said. “Fucking piece of shit whore, I see the way you look at men.” He started toward Poppy, and lifted up a hand that Ryan didn’t realize until then was holding a belt with a giant metal buckle at the end.

“Stop.” Fuck, was that me? The voice that poured out of his throat was deep, calm and commanding.

Mr. Baker and Poppy both looked at him for the first time. “You mind your own business,” Mr. Baker said. “And get the fuck out of my house.”

“Ryan,” Poppy said, her eyes big.

He didn’t realize he'd closed the gap between him and Mr. Baker. All he knew was that he was suddenly on top of him. Straddled over the middle-aged man’s paunch, Ryan landed punches wherever he could.

“Motherfucker,” Mr. Baker grunted, and shoved Ryan off of him with a strength that shouldn’t have been possible.

Ryan’s head hit the floor, and Mr. Baker’s fist landed squarely on Ryan’s jaw. The shock stung more than the actual punch. Her dad must have had forty pounds on him, and Ryan had never been in a fight before. Still, his youth and sheer anger were on his side. After he took two more punches to the face, he kicked his way backward and out of Mr. Baker’s reach.

Ryan stood up and caught him by surprise. Right as Mr. Baker looked up, Ryan landed a hit squarely on his nose. As Mr. Baker reached up to protect his face, Ryan sent an uppercut into his throat and followed with a hit to the temple. With his breath knocked out and windpipe temporarily closed, Mr. Baker hit the floor with a solid thud. He was out.

He heard Mrs. Baker sobbing softly on the floor. When did she wake up? Did she see everything? He didn’t know if he should be worried or proud. Poppy seemed to be in shock. Ryan grabbed Poppy’s hand and helped her up. Easily, he lifted her mother over his shoulder. She couldn’t have weighed more than ninety pounds—a tiny little thing.

After he sat Mrs. Baker on the sofa, she was still moaning gently, not quite fully alert. Poppy looked through the doorway to her father’s unmoving body, unconscious on the kitchen floor. The floodgates opened, and she started crying nonstop.

“Hey, it’s okay. It’s okay,” he told her. How the fuck do you know it’s okay? “Should I—do you want me to call my mom? I can—”

Suddenly, Mrs. Baker reached over and patted Ryan gently on the arm. She was still groggy, and her voice was slurred. “Nobody’s going anywhere,” she told him with a sad smile.

“Mrs. Baker, I’m sorry, but I think you need—I mean, some medical attention might—”

“Sweetie, you couldn’t understand,” she said.

Poppy grabbed his hand and shook her head vigorously. He knew better than to argue.

Mr. Baker began to groan in the next room. Ryan couldn’t see him on the floor anymore, but he rumbled about in the kitchen and sounded like a wild animal. “Poppy, let’s go,” he said. Mrs. Baker leaned back on the couch and closed her eyes.

Without a word, Poppy let him lead her out the back door. They didn't exchange a word until they reached their special Mitchell Park bench. It was their unspoken secret place, even though it was out in the open. Somehow, even with the rolling lawn and joggers passing by, it always seemed like they were alone here.

He didn't know what to do, but when he wrapped an arm around her she fell into his chest naturally. Ryan pulled a bandanna out of his pocket and started wiping at the blood on her face. It was everywhere. It caked her neck and drenched her shirt. “Poppy,” he started, “is this…”

She nodded. “It’s—it’s usually not this bad,” she said. “Really.”

“But, how long…”

“Um, I don’t know. As long as I can remember? I guess?” She was halting in her words, and he could tell she was holding back. But he didn’t want to push her.

“Why didn’t you ever—I mean, how could I not notice?”

Quietly, she pulled her shirt out of her skirt and stood before him. Poppy looked around to see if anyone was coming. When she was sure it was clear, she lifted up her shirt and exposed her stomach. It was covered in bruises all shades of purple and blue. Some bruises were recent, and others were nearly faded away. She turned like a ballerina in a music box, and he saw rows of welts on her back. Before he could stop himself, he traced one of the healed scars with his fingertip.

“This is serious,” he said, but Poppy just pulled her shirt back down and shook her head.

“It looks worse than it is,” she said. “Seriously. I mean… he drinks. You know? And sometimes it gets out of control. He can’t—he can’t help when he gets mad at us. I mean, my mom and I, we have a lot of flaws, you know? It makes him mad—”

Ryan’s fists automatically balled up, but he hugged Poppy tight. As he held her close, her hair flew across his face. “Your dad’s a monster, and it not your fault. Or your mom’s,” he said.

“Ryan,” she said. “It’s okay, really—”

He held her tighter, afraid that if he looked at her face right then, he’d start crying, too. “No. There’s no level of badness that could come close to excusing what your dad’s done.”

Poppy sighed into his arms. “I shouldn’t have said anything,” she said. “I think… I feel like I made it sound worse than it is.”

“Stop it,” he said. “I can’t—I can’t undo what your father’s done. But I can promise that I’ll never let anything bad happen to you. Not ever again.”

He didn't know how long they stayed like that, intertwined on the park bench where they’d spend the past four years talking, laughing, and he'd thought sharing secrets. How could she have kept something like this secret? How could I have been so blind?

Ryan clutched her tighter, and started to rewind their years together. Little pieces of an otherwise enigma of a puzzle began to come together. The turtleneck and long sleeves on a sweltering day. The long skirts. The pained looks on her face so often when they were in PE and a dodgeball hit her just right.

He couldn’t believe how blind he’d been, how stupid. His best friend was hurting, and he hadn’t even noticed.

She felt both incredibly alive and powerful, yet so fragile in his arms. He’d hugged Poppy hundreds of times over the years, but it was always quick and in fun. Not like this. He felt like he was cradling the whole world in his arms, an enormous responsibility. He thought it would be overwhelming and terrifying to be in that kind of position, but it wasn’t.

It felt wholly natural, like this was right where he belonged.