“That’s right; you can feel the good stuff, just not the bad. Guess that means no S and M for my little sister. Bummer, dude.”

Shana delivered the words tonelessly. Nothing personal. She attacked because it was what she did. And no amount of imprisonment, medication or even sisterly attention had ever been able to change that. Shana was a born predator, our father’s daughter. Murdering a young boy when she was only fourteen had landed her behind bars. Killing a fellow inmate as well as two corrections officers now kept her here.

Could you love a person such as my sister? Professionally speaking, she was a fascinating study of antisocial personality disorder. Completely narcissistic, totally devoid of empathy and highly manipulative. Personally speaking, she was the only family I had left.

“I heard you signed up for a new program,” I offered. “Superintendent McKinnon says your first few paintings show a good eye for detail.”

Shana shrugged, not one for compliments.

She sniffed the air again. “No perfume, but your outfit looks professional. Means you’re working today. Going from here to your office. Will you mist yourself in the car? Hope it’s strong enough to cover Eau d’Institution.”

“I thought you didn’t want to talk about my job.”

“I know there’s nothing else to talk about.”

“The weather.”

“Ah fuck it. Just because it’s Monday shouldn’t mean I have to waste an hour serving as your pity project.”

I didn’t say anything.

“I’m tired of it, Adeline. You. Me. These monthly meetings where you show off your bad taste in clothes and I have no choice but to sit here and take it. You have enough patients you should be able to leave me alone. So get out. Toodle right along. I mean it!”

A knock on the door. Officer Maria, who could see everything through the shatterproof window, checking on us. I ignored her, keeping my gaze upon my sister instead.

Her outburst didn’t bother me; I was well accustomed to such displays by now. Rage was Shana’s preferred emotion, serving for both offense and defense. Plus, my sister had reason enough to hate me. And not just because of my rare genetic condition, or because I’d found my very own Daddy Warbucks. But because after I was born, my mother chose to hide me in the closet, and there hadn’t been room enough for two.

Shana cursed me, her eyes a flat display of dull anger and deeper depression, and mostly, I wondered once again what had happened this morning to put my battle-hardened sister in such a mood.

“Why do you care?” I asked her suddenly.

“What?”

“The color fuchsia. Why do you care? About my clothes, what color I wear, whether or not it makes others find me attractive? Why do you care?”