You walked out of the bar on a warm summer evening and expressed delight at the sight of someone smoking on the sidewalk. As I lit your cigarette, you looked me straight in the eye and asked me, "Why do I stay with him? Why do I stay with him when he beats me?" You almost started to cry and then implored me to touch your scalp. I hesitated, but you guided my hand and, yes, it felt like you had a lumpy contusion on the back of your head. As I searched for words, your husband came outside. He looked like he was ready to leave and expressed displeasure about your smoking. You changed the subject and told me I must be a Husky, and I said yes. You were also a Husky. We compared graduation years. We all shook hands, and then you both got in your car and drove off. I went inside and looked at myself in the bathroom mirror and almost cried.