But I have my blue dog! she thinks. I can fix it! I can make it thump again! And then Daddy will be proud that I fixed something like he fixes me!

She leaps up, the excitement detonating in her chest, and hurries back over to her toys in the center of the room. With giddy hands, she curls the stethoscope around her neck and in her ears, picks up her stuffed blue dog, almost drops it, and presses the drum against its chest.

Nothing.

Inject. Press.

Nothing.

Nothing?! Her body slumps over in defeat. She moans with sadness, her mouth curling downward into a large frown. I can’t fix it. I can’t fix it like Daddy fixes me. I can’t do it . . . I can’t show him . . .

As she wails, her mouth opens a little too wide, her tongue undulating between her gums. The lollipop she’d forgotten about clings on for a few beats before slipping out and onto the floor. She freezes, smacking her lips together, only tasting bland saliva now (loneliness), and stares in horror. Pieces of dirt stick to the bright red ball, making it inedible.

Without realizing it, she has started to scream. A flood of pain escapes through her throat that she cannot stop. She screams and screams, screams for her daddy, his title exploding out of her mouth, knowing he would come and fix it. Wanting so badly for him to fix it.

But she screams and he does not come. For the first time, he does not come.

She shoves her head into her lap, trying to curl up into a tight ball. She does not want to look at her room, its awful emptiness. She screams for him as loud as her lungs allow until her throat is raw and sizzling and she can’t scream anymore. So instead she breaks down into tears, wheezing out droplets of salt. But still she calls for him, even if they are just sob-filled whimpers that cannot be heard through that thick metal door.

She hears the lock turn slowly within the door and snap into place. Her head whips up and her neck pops. Her daddy walks in through the doorway, his steps lethargic, a sheet of white fabric draped across his forearm. He closes the door behind himself (snap!) and looks at her, his expression blank and apathetic.

“Daddy!” she yelps and grabs onto his leg.

“What is going on, my sweet?” he questions, his voice calm.

She can only remember her pain.

“Please, fix it,” she mumbles into his leg.

“What are you— Ah . . . I see,” he responds, eyeing the lollipop on the floor, feeling her body tighten like a tourniquet around him. “I see the problem. And, of course, Daddy will fix it. That is an easy fix, my sweet. Do not worry. But first, I must fix something else.” He bends down and her body turns into a bear trap. He pinches her lightly. “Vanilla, I need you to let go and stand up. Be a good girl for Daddy.”