I say.“Let’s go back to St. Stephen. The person who assaulted you. Did you get any kind of look at him?”“No. I heard a sound and turned and he hit me with something and I was knocked out before I saw him.”“You didn’t struggle with him at all?”“No.”Abrams glances down at my left hand. My knuckles are scraped raw from where I punched Sallie Fun last night. I fold my hands, reflexively hiding the wounds on my knuckles. Abrams is quiet.“That’s from something else,” I say.Abrams doesn’t speak or move. The silence in the room piles up and then, once again, I tell my tale about Sallie.“Most people wouldn’t have the physical courage to defend themselves like that,” Abrams says.I shrug. “I grew up in a bad neighborhood,” I say.“Even people from bad neighborhoods,” he says.“I don’t like bullies. And I don’t like being afraid.”“Who bullied you? Back in the neighborhood.” Abrams asks.“Guy named Vasquez. When I was a kid I used to go to a park near my house to read…to get out of the house when my mom was drinking or drugging.
