Her knees press into the worn kitchen linoleum, the chill seeping through the thin cotton of her nightgown. The collar around her throat—soft black leather, a little silver bell—gives a muffled jingle-jangle when she leans forward to set his coffee mug on the table. Steam curls upward, and she watches the way the light from the window catches the tan line on his forearm. Her name is not her name here. Here, she is Seven.

“Good girl,” he says, not looking up from his newspaper. The word good zips down her spine.