I need to get clean before Daddy returns. I need to show him I can take care of myself. He doesn’t need to worry about watching over me anymore. About keeping me safe. I can be careful and strong and do that for him. He can just enjoy my presence now. We can just enjoy being together, without having to worry. I just survived the Outside and the creatures without him and now I’ve returned unharmed! I protected myself . . . for him. And he will forgive me. He has to forgive me.

Because she doesn’t know what she will do if he doesn’t.

I have to get clean.

The doors on this floor all lead to rooms that look just like hers. The concrete replicas make her wonder if she’s made a circle, disoriented by their proximity, going round and round and round until she grows dizzy. She leaves open the doors to what rooms she’s already checked so as not to waste time looking into the same room twice or thrice, but still she double checks and triple checks. When she can’t find the bath, when her efforts at being astute like her daddy are in vain, she returns to her door, thankful it sits at the head of the chain. If it were lost amongst the other doors, nestled between either row, she would surely go insane.

She turns her back to her door and faces down the hallway.

Ninety-six steps.

She closes her eyes and places one foot in front of the other, counting to that magic number in the dark, stumbling because her daddy’s hands aren’t on her shoulders to guide her.

Ninety-three.

Ninety-four.

Ninety-five.

Ninety-six.

She stops and opens her eyes. She’s at the far end of the hall, right before the stairs. The only door nearby is to her left, hidden from the uniformity. She opens it and instantly recognizes the yellowed tile and white ceramic tub, the dirty grout and smeared mirror. She can see so clearly through the dark, she doesn’t realize the light is off. It’s not until she steps inside and eyes the switch, playing around with it to understand its function, that the sickly hue flashes on. She winces, stunned by how much brighter everything becomes. She adjusts and smiles at the familiarity.

Even with just one person inside, the room feels claustrophobic, like the walls are waiting to close in around her. It must have been hard for her daddy to get her clean in such a confined space. He must have struggled to fit.

She stands in front of the mirror, brushing her fingers through her coagulated pigtails, gripping the dirty strands, twisting them, draping the golden ropes tarnished with distress and trauma over her shoulders. She adjusts the lollipop stem in her mouth.

“Look how beautiful you are, Vanilla.”

His hands weaving through her roots, fingering the small of her back.