Times like this, when she slips her hand into mine and holds on tight, and our husband becomes just a shadow in the doorway.

We were his disposable things. Brought to him like cattle. Stripped of what made us sisters or daughters or children. There was nothing that he could take from us—our genes, our bones, our wombs—that would ever satisfy him. There was no other way that we would be free.

Maybe hope isn't the most dangerous thing a person can have. Maybe love is.

Eventually I realize that I am holding on to him just as tightly as he holds on to me. And here we are: two small dying things, as the world ends around us like falling autumn leaves.

When I am writing anything in general, I just want to tell the story that exists in my head; I don't try to write a parable or make a point.

A party in the orange grove. The pain on Linden's face is immediate. I am unwavering. He has cost me more pain than I will ever be able to repay.

The months fall to shards at my feet.