The plug shifts when she breathes. Seven kneels in the tub, cheek on the cold porcelain, knees drawn up, ass still raised. The dark silicone sits heavy inside her, a constant pressure against her raw walls. Every inhale pushes her belly into the tub floor and makes the plug nudge deeper. Water drips from the faucet—tink, tink, tink—and the bell at her throat answers each drop with its own tiny ching.

He left the door open. She can hear him in the kitchen. Cabinet doors. The clink of a glass. Then his footsteps, slow and heavy, returning down the hall.