The chair feels like it's trying to carve my spine in half, but I sit down anyway. Knuckles crack over the keyboard. Cloverdale CYS loads on the screen in front of me.
Goverment webites have cheap firewall and even cheaper passwords. Someone in this building probably thinks hitting "update later" is a personality trait.
Two minutes, that all if took me. One soft knock on a locked door. And the entire system opens like an old wound. A name appears in the database: Sunny (O'Hare) Deline.
There she is. I open the first file. And start reading the first nonfiction horror story.
Age: 12
Birthday: September 13th
Born on a Friday
Yeah, that tracks. Files begin stacking across the screen, hundreds of pages. Each one a punch to the gut. Teacher notes first and then photos. The kind you only look at once… and never forget.
The first picture loads painfully slow, like the system itself is warning me not to look. Sunny sits in a school hallway. Backpack slumped behind her. Hair tied into a crooked ponytail. At first glance, it looks normal.
A kid asked to smile for documentation, but then the details sharpen. Her left cheek is swollen tight under the skin. The bruise runs from the corner of her eye down to her jaw, purple bleeding into yellow like someone painted violence in layers. One eye is open and alert and the other struggles to stay that way.
Next photo was worse. It was a close-up of her hands. Her knuckles split were split with a broken finger. These were not playground scrapes. I know what real injuries look like. These are thin, clean cuts. They are defensive wounds. The kind you get when you throw your hands up to block something flying at your face.
Another photo.
Sunny sitting at a cafeteria table. A tooth is missing. Kids lose teeth, but the gum above it is dark. It is clear that it is bruised.
The notes underneath read:
Playground mishap.
Yeah.
Sure.
Next.
Her shoulder.
A bruise wraps from the top of her arm into her collarbone. it had rounded edges. there was a clear patterned.
Like fingers.
Someone squeezed hard enough to leave their handprint behind. I open another file opens. It is a hospital intake, this hospital to be exact. Sunny's hair is wet, stuck to her forehead like she cried too long before anyone helped. A thin cut splits the bridge of her nose.
The report says:
"Walked into a cabinet door."
Right.
Next photo.
Her fifth-grade class picture. Every other kid is smiling. Sunny tries. Just a tight little curve of her mouth, but the bruise under her turtleneck collar shows through where the makeup rubbed thin. Whoever tried to hide it didn't understand lighting.
My jaw tightens. Every image feels like a timestamped failure. Another adult who saw something. Another adult who did nothing.
Every file seems to be an excuse. Every excuse seems to be a dismissal. They all trace back to the same name.
Case Manager: Marianne Lynn.
Another year, Another picture, but the same pattern. Her eye is purple-black with deep tissue bruising.
The notes say:
"Fell down the stairs."
Funny how she keeps falling into the shape of someone's grip. Then I hit the medical reports. These are worse.
Right rib — healed fracture.
Left rib — re-fractured six months later.
Right leg — hairline fracture.
Left wrist — spiral fracture.
That one makes my vision go red. Spiral fractures don't come from falls. They come from twisting. Someone grabbed her arm and kept twisting until bone gave way. I read page after page.
My job was to get the information and I was. doing just that.
Bruises catalogued in neat medical grids.
Green.
Yellow.
Purple.
Patterns consistent with belts and Blunt force trauma.
One report even reads:
"Pattern consistent with shoe tread."
Who the hell stomps on a kid?
Then I open the newest file. It is the hospital scans. She has listed: Hairline skull fracture, Two cracked ribs, Shoulder dislocated clean out of the socket, An ankle broken in a way you usually only see in car crashes, or when someone gets thrown.
Hard.
And the bruising around her neck…
Deep.
Thumb-shaped.
Strangulation.
She didn't fall into that one either. The hospital photo makes my breath hitch. She's tiny, too tiny. Bones sharp under skin that's been turned into a patchwork of pain.
Purple.
Blue.
Green.
Yellow.
Someone didn't just hurt her. They kept hurting her. Year after year. Then I scroll one page further. And hit the worst report of them all.
SANE EXAM RESULTS
Sexual assault confirmed.
Trauma consistent with force.
Evidence collected.
I lean back slowly in the chair. My jaw grinding. Vision buzzing. My mom was raped and she had me because of it.
I shook my head. This wasn't neglect. This wasn't bad luck. This wasn't "accident-prone." This was torture. And someone thought no one would notice because no one ever did.
Not until now.
Not until us.
The thought hits before I can stop it. Sunny is one of us now. I know Bear wouldn't turn away his own kid. But even if he did, even if he froze, even if he hesitated.
I wouldn't.
Someone needs to stand in front of that girl for once. Someone needs to take the hits meant for her. I stare at her picture again. That crooked little smile. That bruise someone tried to hide but didn't care enough to hide well.
Yeah.
No kid looks like that unless every adult around them failed. My hands hover over the keyboard, but not to type. Just to keep from punching through the monitor.
Sunny is one of us now. I don't need a patch vote to know it. She has the blood, but blood is not always family. Not here and not with us. Family is who we refuse to let fall.
And Sunny?
She just earned an entire motorcycle club willing to burn the world down to keep her safe.