The morning air in our Miami condo was already thick and humid.

I stood by the kitchen counter, packing my lunch for the law firm where I worked as an administrator.

Derek walked in, his blue silk robe hanging loose around his shoulders.

“Where is my breakfast?” he asked.

His voice was flat, devoid of any morning warmth.

“I didn’t have time today, Derek,” I said, keeping my head down. “I have an early meeting.”

He walked over to the coffee maker.

He took the glass pot of freshly brewed coffee off the machine.

Steam rose from the dark liquid.

“You always have time for your little job,” he said.

“Please, Derek, just let me go to work.”

He did not yell or raise his voice.

He simply tipped the glass pot forward.

The boiling coffee hit my bare shoulder and neck.

A blinding, white-hot pain shot down my arm and across my chest.

I screamed, dropping my lunch container onto the tile floor.

The plastic shattered.

“Clean that up before you leave,” he said.

He set the pot back down on the counter.

He turned on his heel and walked back toward the bedroom.

I did not clean it.

I grabbed my purse and car keys from the metal hook by the door.

My skin felt like it was bubbling under my cotton shirt.

I ran down the hallway to the elevator, pressing my hand over my mouth to stifle my sobs.

The air inside my sedan was boiling from the Florida sun, but I turned the air conditioning to maximum.

I directed the plastic vents straight at my shoulder.

The cold air felt like frozen needles against the raw burn.

I drove with one hand to an urgent care clinic five miles away.

The waiting room smelled of antiseptic and old magazines.

“What happened?” the nurse practitioner asked, gently peeling my collar away.

“I spilled hot coffee,” I said.

My voice shook.

She looked at me, her eyes lingering on the pattern of the splatter.

“This is a deep second-degree burn,” she said. “We need to clean this and dress it immediately.”

“Please,” I whispered.