I felt like a puppet. Like a rag doll. I said my own name like it was someone else’s.

“What are you working on?” she asked.

“The basement,” I said. It was barely above a whisper.

Out the front window, her car sat in the driveway by the front sidewalk. A black Mercedes SUV. She had on slim navy-blue pants, cropped above her ankle, and shiny leather loafers.

“I don’t mean to keep you from your work,” she said, and then touched the side of her head, dumb. “Sorry!” she said, and held out her hand. “I’m Meghan.”

“Meghan,” I repeated.

The baby fussed and smashed her face into Meghan’s collarbone, hungry.

“I’m not staying,” Meghan said. “Unless Bear takes a really long time to come back. Do you know where he is?”

“No,” I said. I thought, Maybe getting my money.

My breath was coming short and hard, and I had to press my lips together to try to slow down my heart.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I just have only ever dealt with Bear.”

“No surprise,” Meghan said, and she walked into the kitchen without hesitation, opened the fridge, rooted around. She set the baby on the floor with a soft square toy. The baby scooted around on her butt, pacifier tight in her mouth, bumping the toy, then going after it.

“He’s not great at talking about himself,” Meghan said. She poured filtered water into a tall glass. “Of course, there’s a reason for that. No one else has been here?” she asked, laughing.

I felt my eyes widen. “No,” I said.

“No … other women?” she asked. “Another wife? Another baby?”

I couldn’t stop looking at the baby. Bear’s baby. “No, ma’am,” I said. “Just Bear.”

“And what are you doing?” she asked again.

“Painting.”

She looked at my clothes. My own jeans, but Bear’s T-shirt. Both clean, both free of paint. I was barefoot.

“Is that it?” she asked.

I stammered. “Unpacking,” I said. “Moving stuff.” The words felt jumbled in my mouth. I couldn’t tell her what I was actually doing.

Meghan nodded and smiled. “You’re his minion,” she said.

All I could think was that a minion was an animal, a donkey, or an ass. A Sherpa who carries all your shit up a mountain. A minion was something the devil had, to do his dirty work.

“It’s okay,” Meghan said. In all her perfect, milky-white skin, there was a scar below her left ear. It followed the curve of her jaw, fading. It had healed well, had likely been stitched shut and watched carefully. Nothing like the rippled welts of my scars. When she saw that I noticed it, she touched it, ran her finger down the length of it. She wrinkled her nose in disgust.

“We’re not together,” she said. “We have an agreement.”

I heard the sweep and heavy close of the garage door, and Bear’s footsteps in the hall.

“Well, well,” he said, his voice echoing.

The baby scooted toward Bear, her arms bouncing, excited.