Chapter 2: Daddy’s Little Girl

My daughter’s surgery dragged on for nearly twenty-four hours. The doctors had to cut her open, remove her uterus—her body filled with trash, foreign objects I can’t even let myself picture.

I spent the wait hunched in the hospital’s family lounge, clutching a Styrofoam cup of burnt coffee, staring at the scuffed tile. Her life was saved, but her urinary system was destroyed. She’d have to live with a urine bag forever.

The doctor told me she was suffering severe trauma, couldn’t bear to see men—especially boys her own age.

I sat by her hospital bed. She’d torn four fingernails off, scraping at the floor in agony. The blood was still caked under her nails.

But she wouldn’t let anyone touch her.

I’d never been a man of many words, and Emily was always the bright spot in my life. Every day she’d bounce around me, her voice like music: “Daddy, Daddy!”

But now, no matter what I said, she wouldn’t answer.

“Emily, Daddy got you your favorite cotton candy. Strawberry? Honeydew? Not hungry?”

Nothing.

“Emily, you want to go home soon, right? When you’re better, I’ll take you to Cedar Point, just like you always wanted.”

Still, silence.

I’d never been much of a father. And now, I realized I still didn’t know how.

Just when I’d run out of things to say, Emily finally whispered.

She asked, “Daddy, did I do something wrong?”

“What?”

Emily mumbled, “Teacher said only bad kids get punished. Daddy, did I get punished because I was bad?”

My Emily—she’d just been walking home, her regular route, targeted by boys who’d finished their exams and wanted somewhere to pour out their twisted urges.

What did she do wrong?

I couldn’t answer. My throat locked up. I held her as her little body shook, her sobs shattering me from the inside out.

A few days later, I found out more about the beast named Kyle Peterson.

His parents handed over a full psych history—schizophrenia, they said. The assessment: no self-awareness at the time of the crime, so he couldn’t be held criminally responsible.

His punishment? A civil settlement of $45,000, strict supervision by his parents, and a face-to-face apology to us.

On the day of the apology, Richard Peterson hid under a hat, terrified to meet my eyes.

Kyle glanced at me, then laughed. “You’re the guy who torched my dad’s hair, right? Man, that was awesome. I always wanted to do that.”

Richard barked, “Shut up! Apologize and let’s go.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Kyle swaggered over, gave me a once-over, and grinned with pure malice. “You know, when I was messing with your daughter, she just kept screaming for you, man. I told her, ‘Call me Daddy instead.’ She bit me, so I clocked her with a rock. Blood everywhere. Wild, right?”

“Are you pissed? Gonna send me to jail? Joke’s on you—I’m legally nuts. You gonna let a psycho like me drive you crazy?”

My fists curled so tight my nails bit into my palms, but my face stayed calm. He wanted a reaction. I wouldn’t give him one.

The officer nearby went pale. “Parents, control your kid!”

Richard Peterson’s face twisted. He slapped Kyle. “Shut the hell up! Haven’t you done enough?”

The room erupted—Kyle’s mother sobbing, police trying to break it up, Kyle just cackling.

But I wasn’t angry. I felt my whole body blaze with a strange exhilaration.

I crouched down, met his eyes, and smiled. “It’s fine, kid. You’ll get your shot at the crazy games soon enough.”

It’s good to meet a kindred spirit.

I wondered whose name he’d call when it was his turn to bleed.