On nights when she didn’t work, she sat between Mark and Gilda as they watched their shows: the news (so they could bemoan the wickedness of the younger generations), The 700 Club (Pat Robertson was her grandma’s crush) and Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman reruns. It was her favorite time and not because she enjoyed the content. No, Summer daydreamed during those hours, hands pressed between her knees, her eyes glazed over. She thought of who she was going to be next, and where she was going next, and most importantly, she thought of all the things she wanted to do to Taured to punish him for killing her mother. She used whatever they were watching on TV to come up with her fantasy: if Pat Robertson was talking about the fires of hell, that’s where Summer would send him. If Sully was bitten by a rattlesnake, Summer would have Taured bitten by one, as well, but instead of saving him, as the brave Dr. Quinn would have, she’d watch him die, writhing on the floor in pain. It was nice, better therapy than the therapy, if she were honest.

After the shows, she’d fall into her mother’s old bed and sleep deep and heavy, momentarily sated with revenge. And that’s how it went.

When Summer graduated high school, she legally changed her name to Lorraine Ives—her mother’s maiden name, which she shortened to Rainy—and moved to New York. Her grandparents wrote to her regularly, folding a religious tract into each card or letter they sent. Rainy kept every piece of Christian propaganda in a shoebox in her closet because she thought her mom would find that funny. Shortly after her graduation, Mark and Gilda died, within eight months of each other.

She enrolled in art school after a year of working the New York restaurant scene, using the money from the sale of her grandparents’ house for her first year’s tuition. Rainy was not an artist; Taured had cared about educating the young ones with his skewed view of the Bible, art falling very low on his list of accepted activities. But art was the way people gave voice to truly important things. When she’d walked through MoMA for the first time, she’d felt like every cell in her body had come to life. You could say anything you wanted to—anything at all, and hide its meaning between layers of paint, or in the bend of metal, or in the folds of performance art. During her visit, Rainy had overheard two friends discussing an exhibit, which consisted of a piece of linen wrapped around a rope.