By sunrise, Lieutenant Ava Reynolds knew the door had not been the only thing broken.
The apartment door could be replaced.
The split frame could be sanded, reinforced, and painted.
The cracked phone could be bagged as evidence and later exchanged for a new one.
The bruises would darken, bloom, ache, and eventually fade according to the slow calendar of the body.
But the truth about her mother did not heal on the body’s schedule.
It sat somewhere deeper.
It waited behind every breath.
Ava lay in a hospital bed on base with her right wrist braced, her shoulder wrapped, and one side of her face swollen enough that her reflection seemed to belong to someone else.
The room smelled like antiseptic, paper sheets, and coffee from the nurses’ station.
A monitor beeped softly nearby, even though she did not need it for anything serious.
She hated the sound.
Not because it was loud.
Because it made the room feel too official.
Too real.
