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    Summary

    She dry heaved, just twice. The bathroom smelled like sweat and wet wipes, just like it did in the Minneapolis Gymnastic Academy’s Girls Locker Room. Breathe. Trinity focused on the sink. She touched the porcelain. She was in the bathroom at the Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center. She was nowhere else, she was no longer a gymnast, and her best friend was no longer alive.

    Her breathing steadied. Trinity was acutely aware of the sweat running down the nape of her neck. Her breath tasted hot and acidic, and she felt as if a layer of grime covered her entire body. She stood up and grasped the sink. She remembered, briefly, a grounding exercise her victim advocate taught her when she was 18. To name everything about herself, a way to detangle her thoughts.

    --

    Trinity Santos is recognized at work.

    Language:
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