The sharp crack of leather split the air.I knew at once—Nathan was being beaten again.With his slow wits, he made mistakes constantly, and ever since I moved in across from them, not a day passed without hearing the sounds of Jeremy and Janey's curses and blows.One afternoon, I happened to run into Nick in the neighborhood. He was pushing his wheelchair toward the market, his face mottled with bruises, a pitiful sight.At the exit of the compound stretched a steep slope. He gripped the rims with all his strength, but his arms lacked power—every time he inched forward, the chair slipped back.I stepped in, caught the handles, and with one push drove him up the incline.He turned his head, saw it was me, and lowered his gaze. "…Thank you.""Do you want me to call the police?" I asked."It's useless. If they find out, they'll only beat us harder." His eyes narrowed, his voice laced with bitter hatred."True," I said. "Sometimes the internet does more than the police ever could
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