"It was raining," he recalls, closing his eyes. "I was walking home from the park - he still let me go to the park in those days - and I went by one of those big puddles, you know, and a car ran through it, and soaked me up to here," he gestures at the middle of his chest. "So I knew Dad was gonna be really mad at me when I got home, so the minute I got in the door I bolted for my room, but I tripped on the stairs and fell flat on my face and got mud all over everywhere."

He stops, rubbing his face for a moment; when he continues, his voice is a little rougher.

"Dad heard me. He started yelling—said I was a filthy little demon child and did I know how much it was gonna cost to clean that carpet, and he came down the stairs still goin' on like that and he hit me with his belt," his lips move silently for a moment, like he's counting, "fifty-four times."

It's one of the ones that left marks, although not obvious marks. In the right light, though, they show up fine. Lucinda has photos.