Polly knelt in her single circular window sill, trying to think of an appropriate prayer. A pillow was tucked under her swollen left knee. He’d be home tomorrow and she still hadn’t recovered. Everything she knew was about honoring thy parents, so how did you ask the sky to stop them from hurting you?
Asking God the Father felt wrong, but so did asking His son. Tears rippled up in her little eyes until she spied an orange streak in the sky. A shooting star, she thought, a message. A chance. She clasped her fingers together and wished, and wished with all her heart, that Dad would stop yelling at Mom, stop grabbing her, and just, just, just stop.
Wishes come true.