But they both knew that it wasn’t okay. The baby was right—she didn’t know how to be a mother. Sometimes when her husband was at work, she let the baby cry and cry even if she wasn’t doing anything but laying on the couch, watching poor people win things on daytime TV. Someone told her once that the biggest pawnshop in the world is right next door to where they film The Price Is Right—that they offer half of the value of whatever the contestants win. That’s the kind of world she was bringing her daughter into, where getting more than you’ve been slated for is only an illusion, where someone else already has half a claim on your good luck. She couldn’t make herself feel anything for the baby. When her husband asked about the diaper rash later, she lied. Whose side are you on? she thought at him. But she knew the answer to that.

She watches the slot machines whir from a stool in the corner of the bar, slowly sipping the house white wine she’s allowed herself, even though her money is almost gone. The wine tastes like chilled vinegar, but she drinks it anyway.

It was stupid of her to blow $10 for a psychic reading she didn’t even get. It means that tonight or tomorrow, she’ll need to pick up a john. The thought makes her gulp the rest of the wine. She orders another and feels her options whittled down. A headache creeps into her temples, throbs along a fault line that splits the front of her forehead. After this second glass she’s down to $9, and that’s if she skimps on the tip. Tonight then. She should start looking for her next date. Some girls sleep with the manager of the Sunset Motel—Robert—in lieu of paying their room bill, but she’s prided herself on always being able to cover that much, at least. It’s a small thing, but she likes knowing she still has some kind of code.

She pictures Robert’s stained Hanes T-shirt, always riding up to reveal a round, pale slice of belly, the acrid and stinging smell of his sweat, the compulsive way he licks his lips. She can tell he loves having something to hold over them—even a crumbling motel room that goes for $15 a night. Once, when she came upon him at the desk, his eyes were closed, and as she stepped closer she saw he had his hand on the back of a woman’s head, his fingertips tense with pressure. He smiled up at her, pleased with himself, as though to say One day I can demand this from you, too. As she walked away, she imagined how the threadbare carpet must have bit into the woman’s knees.