“Chris! Chris, wake up!” lisps the three-year-old voice of my sister Sharon, her little hand tugging on my shoulder.

Without opening my eyes, I force myself to remember where I am. It’s very late on Halloween night, and I’m in my bed that occupies most of the small room in the back house where we’re living now—behind the “Big House” on Eighth and Wright that is owned by Freddie’s sister Bessie. As soon as these facts register, I ease back down into sleep, wanting to rest just a little longer. The irony is that while sleep sometimes brings nightmares, it’s the reality of my waking hours that can cause me the greater fear.

From the time that Momma came to get us, first taking me, Ophelia, and Sharon—who had been born in the women’s correctional facility during that time my mother was away—to live with her and Freddie, life had changed drastically and mostly for the worse. The world of the unknown that overwhelmed me when we stayed with Uncle Archie and TT seemed wonderful by comparison to everything that took place in the territory of the familiar over which Freddie Triplett ruled. Moms gave us all the love, protection, and approval that she could, but often that seemed to make him more brutal than he already was.