Clara
Ronan was there when I woke up from my nap.
“Hey there, pretty one,” Ronan said. “How are you feeling?”
I scrambled around the bed for my notebook, and Ronan put it in my hands.
“Better,” I wrote. Then, “I’m sorry.” I hadn’t meant to be so dramatic.
“No, no don’t apologize. You didn’t do anything wrong,” Ronan said.
“I attacked someone,” I wrote.
“Well, okay, in the future it would be better if you reported an abuser to one of us,” Ronan said, “but you can hardly be blamed. The man battered your best friend. I’d do the same in your place.”
“What will happen to Kyle?” I wrote.
“Right now he’s locked up,” Ronan said, “and under close guard. We’ll hold a trial later. If you like, you may stand in for the victim and have input on his sentence, since your friend is, I presume, s
