"What are you talking about? I never—"
Before I could finish, a sharp crack split the air.
Herman's palm connected with my face.
His eyes were bloodshot.
"Still making excuses? He's a child. Children don't lie. You've been looking after him all this time, and you put your hands on him over a piece of junk? Was it really worth it?"
This man, who had never so much as raised his voice at me, had just struck me.
I pressed my hand to my cheek, staring at him in shock.
The burning sting across my face tangled with the cramping in my lower abdomen, each feeding the other.
But what hurt worse than any of it were his words.
When my parents were still alive, they'd had a golden retriever, a companion dog named Biscuit. The dog had died saving Herman, darting into the road and getting hit by a car before it could get clear. Herman had carved the headstone himself. He'd said he would never forget that the dog had saved his life. He'd said he would keep the ashes close, a companion for all the days to come.
And now he was calling Biscuit's remains junk.
Tears rolled down my face, heavy and fast. The man standing in front of me suddenly felt like a stranger. A terrifying one.