The pores and pits on his cheek make a moonscape, as he leans in close. His breath smells of garlic and rotting flesh.
“Tell me,” he says.
Silence is the only power left to me—the choice to withhold communion, to remain locked tight. Of course, he will get angry. That, too, is a power I retain. There will be threats, even violence. I may scream.
But I won’t talk.