Her contact photo flashed across my dual monitors, routed from the pink Child Safe Watch I had strapped to her wrist that morning. It was a Friday afternoon. I answered with a customary, melodic lilt in my voice.
“Ava, my sweet girl? What’s going on?”
For a fraction of a second, the only response was the hollow, rhythmic static of ragged breathing. Then, the silence shattered into a muffled, wet sob.
“Mommy… Daddy’s girlfriend hit me with a hockey stick.”
My ergonomic office chair rolled backward with such violent force that it slammed into the steel filing cabinet behind me. A dull clang reverberated through my cubicle, but I barely registered it. The world outside my headset ceased to exist.
“What?” The word scraped out of my throat, utterly devoid of breath.
Ava sucked in a fragmented gasp. When she spoke again, her voice was compressed into a terrified, barely-there whisper. “If I cry… she’ll hurt me again.”
