There must be something else. Something must work. How did Daddy get it to thump?

She glares at the syringe and picks it up by the plunger with two fingers. She peers into the barrel, squinting her eyes as if the closer she looks, the more likely she will understand what to do. Understand the intricacy behind the emptiness. There are clusters of bubbly foam clinging to the inside of the barrel. They remind her of the smudge.

The blood.

Her eyebrows lift. She holds out her finger and pauses to weigh the possible consequences. To think about what would happen if she . . .

But her thoughts don’t go far. Not further than the thought of that thumping.

(The thumping she herself is slowly losing.)

She grits her teeth and pricks herself with the syringe. She winces as a roll of blood forms, a stark contrast against her pale skin.

Like Daddy’s when . . .

An emotional flashback of fear and confusion seizes her. She gasps and quickly shuts her eyes, holding her breath. Behind her lids, she sees darkness, nothingness. But she can feel the sting on the tip of her finger. That familiar, hedonic sting. An elated pain lurches up her throat, but she traps it before it can get any further.

It’s all right. Daddy won’t let anything bad happen to me. He said so! I’m safe. I’m safe. Behind these walls, I’m safe.

She opens her eyes and lets out a sharp exhale. She feels her body settle and blinks a few times to dry the water from her lids.

With numb expression, she dips the tip of the needle into the ball of blood and pulls the plunger. A few drops of red climb into the needle, but not nearly enough to fill the barrel. In her mind, the empty transparency of the glass should be glowing red by now. She squeezes the tip of her finger over and over again, harder and harder. Blood drips down her knuckles toward her palm. She tries to collect it all in one place and tediously vacuums every bit she can, growing frustrated when a spot dries too quickly, clogging the syringe.

A cluster of thick, red bubbles is now formed at the top of the needle.

Her finger still bleeds, but she does not need any more. Staring at the snakes of red slithering down her wrist makes her sick. She frowns and looks at the skirt of her dress. Fabric she can ruin with the color of heat. She wipes her finger across her thigh instead and rubs the excess red into her skin until it disappears.

She picks the dog back up.

Inject. Press.

The needle spits.

As she pulls out the syringe, a wad of stuffing falls from the dog. A twisted clump partially dyed the color of her insides. Her bottom lid twitches at the sight.

She checks the dog’s chest, still holding the syringe in her hand.

Nothing.

Her eyebrows furrow with anger and just as she is about to throw the dog across the room, the lock snaps.