Gambling dollars have not had much impact on this enclave of the poor, unless you consider the expanded police force and new wing of the local jail to be civic improvements. The elementary school is still grimy, the windows of its overloaded portables still supporting air-conditioning units that purge waves of lukewarm air reeking of mildew. Travel two more blocks, and you’ll reach the Reverend Morehead’s church, still in desperate need of a coat of paint. Cross the dirt parking lot where the rats feast at night, and you’ll find a four-room stucco home, its fading yellowed walls trimmed in peeling black paint.

Seven-year-old Lilith Eve Robinson awakens on her birthday with a start. Stares at the ceiling fan. Concentrates.

‘Six-seventeen.’

She rolls over and glances at the alarm clock—6:17.

Lilith climbs out of the sofa bed. Folds the sheet and quilt. Replaces the cushions and enters the kitchen. Removes two eggs from the refrigerator. Scrambles them in a bowl, then pours the contents into a pan and lights the burner.

She heads for the powder room. Urinates. Washes her hands and face. Forces the last bit of toothpaste onto the worn bristles of her toothbrush, knowing the container must last at least another week. Rinses her mouth. Slips on the dress hanging behind the door, then stares at her reflection in the bathroom mirror.

Cocoa skin. High cheekbones. Startling azure-blue eyes framed by ebony hair, long and wavy. The daughter of the late Madelina Aurelia-Robinson is a beauty in the making, even if her classmates despise her.

‘Lilith Eve!’ The door is yanked open, the girl dragged out by her arm. ‘You see this?’ Quenton Morehead shoves the frying pan of burned eggs under his foster granddaughter’s nose. ‘That’s the third time this week. What on God’s green earth is wrong with you, child?’

Lilith says nothing. To say something would invite the Baptist minister’s physical wrath.

‘I’m talkin’ to you, you little heathen. Answer me!’

Silence.

‘Damn you, child. Just like your mama. You got six lashes comin’, and I don’t wanna hear no whimperin’ outta you this time.’ She sees the knotted electrical cord in his right hand as he braces her with his left. ‘Why (whip) the good Lord (whip) stuck me (whip) with the likes of you (whip) is beyond me.’

She looks up at him through teary eyes, his breath painful to breathe. ‘Sorry, Grandpa.’

‘Sorry my ass. Now go on and get to school. Breakfast is over.’

She limps past him, grabs her school bag, and heads out the front door.

Brandy Townson is waiting for her outside. They walk together in silence.

‘You hate him, don’t you?’

‘It was my fault,’ Lilith says.

‘He doesn’t love you, Lilith. Nobody loves you.’

‘Do you love me, Brandy?’

‘Who you talking to, freak?’

Lilith looks up. Sees Daunte and his fourth grade pals. Feels the warm urine dribbling down her panties.