Every time my brother-in-law brought my seven-year-old home from school, she was unconscious. My husband said she was just tired. After the fourth time, I put a recorder in her backpack.

And then, underneath the radio, my daughter.

Somewhere underneath all of it. Not awake, not asleep. Slurring it the way you do when you are seven years old and going under and you do not know that is what is happening to you.

Three words. Barely words at all.

Is Mommy coming?

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And her uncle said: “Yeah, kid. Soon.”

And then that man turned the radio up, and the file runs out four seconds after that.

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