There would be trained people for that, people whose job was to avoid making a frightened child repeat painful information unnecessarily.
“Did he hurt you tonight?”
Emily looked down at the twisted rabbit ear.
“Yes.”
“Is the thing you called a snake inside that room?”
The girl’s eyes lifted toward the landing.
Then she shook her head.
“No.”
María waited.
Emily’s next words came so quietly that María leaned closer to hear them.
“Snake is what Daddy makes me call it.”
María’s expression did not change.
That took effort.
“What does he make you call that?” she asked, keeping her voice steady.
Emily pressed her face briefly against the rabbit.
“What he does when the door is closed.”
María stopped there.
No more questions.
No demand for details.
No attempt to make an eight-year-old turn terror into adult language while standing in the same house as the person she feared.
