When Michael Helwart pushed open the bathroom door, the scent of iron-scented steam and unscented soap hit him like a wave of dread. His heart pounded erratically as he caught sight of her, Linsy, crouched in the bathtub like a ghost trying to scrape away her own existence.

She sat hunched forward, her knees drawn to her chest, her thin arms furiously scrubbing her skin raw. Not a sob escaped her lips. Her silence was deafening, desperate, as if crying out loud would solidify what had ...