Kate remembers being 8 years old and screaming in terror, scrambling down that cement path after her father had ripped a bedroom door from its hinges in his fury. Her mother chased after her, grabbed her by the waist, and whispered pleadingly, “What if the neighbors hear?”

She remembers even darker moments, too, unfolding where no one could see. Even now, the smell of Budweiser brings back a nauseating flood of images. She remembers her father lifting her from bed late at night and carrying her, dazed and half-numb, outside. She remembers being lowered into that pit in the garage, wrapped in a canvas blanket that reeked of motor oil and booze. She remembers the laughter of the men above and the smell of their beer as, one by one, they entered the pit where she waited, trembling.

She remembers they were taking turns.