“You’re drowning,” Alma said. Not a question.

Alma came home at midnight, her knuckles bruised, her smile too wide. She had punched a landlord who evicted a single mother from her class. “He deserved it,” she said, pressing ice to her hand.

Then Alma did something she never did. She stopped talking. She fetched a comb, a towel, and a pair of proper shears. She sat behind Rose and began to cut. Not fast. Not fiery. Slowly. Gently.

Rose didn’t look up. “I’m trying to cut my hair. But my hands won’t move.”

“Rose?” Alma’s voice dropped to a whisper she rarely used. “What are you doing?”