But the most striking thing was her head. It was smooth, pale, and completely bald.

“Hey, Bug,” I said, my voice automatically softening. It’s a trick I learned. Outside these walls, I speak in growls and threats. Inside, for her, I try to sound like a human being. “You up early?”

“I couldn’t sleep,” she said, looking down at her fuzzy socks. “My stomach hurts.”

“I’ll make the tea,” I said. Ginger tea. It was the only thing that settled the nausea.

I moved to the kitchenette, my large frame taking up most of the space. As the water boiled, I watched her. She had walked into the bathroom and was staring at the styrofoam head on the counter.

The Wig.

We had bought it two weeks ago. It cost four hundred dollars. That was two weeks of groceries, a tank of gas for the bike, and half the electric bill. I had to pull an extra run for the club—transporting “sensitive materials” across state lines—just to get the cash fast enough. I didn’t tell her that. I told her I won a scratch-off ticket.

It was blonde, long, and silky. Real human hair blend. It was beautiful. And she hated it.

“I can’t do it, Dad,” she said, her voice trembling.