“Bad love,” she said softly. “Little rooms. Little locked cells. Bare bulbs—or sometimes he'd just light a candle. Candles we made in crafts. Beautiful candles—actually they were ugly pieces of shit, with this really disgusting scent. Nothing in the cell but two chairs. He'd sit opposite you, your knees almost touching. Nothing between you. Then he'd stare at you for a long time. A long time. Then he'd start talking in this low, relaxed voice—like it was just a chat, like it was just two people having a nice, civil conversation. And at first you'd think you were getting away easy, he'd sound so pleasant. Smiling, playing with that stupid little beard or his puka shells.”

She said, “Shit,” and drank coffee.

“What did he talk about?”

“He'd start off lecturing about human nature. How everyone had good parts of their character and bad parts and the difference between the successful people and the unsuccessful people was which part you used. And that we kids were there because we were using too much bad part and not enough good part. Because we'd gotten warped somehow—damaged was the way he put it—from wanting to sleep with our mommies and our daddies. But how everyone else at the school was now doing great. Everyone except you, young lady, is controlling their impulses and learning to use the good part. They are going to be okay. They deserve good love and are going to have happy lives.”

She closed her eyes. Took a deep breath. Funneled her lips into a pinhole and blew air out through it.

“Then he'd stop. To let it all sink in. And stare some more. And get even closer. His breath always stank of cabbage . . . the room was so small the smell filled it—he filled it. He wasn't a big man, but in there he was huge. You felt like an ant, about to be crushed—like the room was running out of air and you were going to strangle . . . the way he stared—his eyes were like drills. And the look—when you got the bad love. After the soft talk was through. This hatred—letting you know you were scum.