After the last time, I knew not to ask to be let out of the small place. I had to wait, and when she was ready, she’d open the hatch. I could come out, and I could have anything I wanted to eat. Then we’d go to the shop down the road—the one that smelled weird—where I’d find a book that didn’t have pages falling out, and she’d buy it for me.

I just had to wait. Had to be patient. That was the word. Patient.

Except I had been patient. I’d sat here, and there’d been noise and talking and laughing and then more noise, and I’d been completely quiet, even though she’d forgotten to give me a blanket and I was cold, and I was getting too big to be here without curling up and that hurt, curling up so small when I was not so small anymore.

I had just turned three years old. For my birthday, I’d gotten a special gift. First, I had to play a game, which was special, too, because my mother did not play games. Those were for babies. But this was a grown-up game. There’d been a man in the apartment—one of her friends—and when they were talking, I had to find his jacket and his wallet and take out one bill marked “20.” No more than one.

If the man caught me, I could not say my mother told me to do it. That was the rule. It hadn’t been easy, because the man put his jacket on the sofa, and I had to wait until he went into the kitchen and then quickly take the money. But I won, and my mother had been happy, and she’d let me buy all the books I could with a five-dollar bill. Then she bought me a candy bar and said that I could play the game every time a man came over and if I won, I’d get books and a candy bar. If I lost, though—if the man caught me—then my mother would not protect me from a beating. Those were the rules. That was fair, she said. Just like it was fair that if I waited in the small space quietly, I’d get a reward when she let me out.

Be patient.

But I had to pee so bad it hurt. Everything hurt, and I was cold. I was hungry, too, because she’d forgotten to give me lunch again, and I knew not to ask, or she’d cuff me and say she was getting to it, even though I knew she’d forgotten.

What if she’d forgotten me? I couldn’t hear anything. I hadn’t for a long time. For a very, very long time, and what if she’d forgotten? What if—?

“Olivia.”