My price. My price is to turn back the clock, but that’s not feasible. My price is to eradicate the Pure Movement from the ground up, like pulling weeds from what was once a lively garden. My price is to see Reverend Carl Corbin and his flock hanged or torn to shreds by wild dogs or burnt to cinders in hell.

The back door creaks open and slams shut, and I expect to see Patrick coming toward me, but it isn’t him. It’s Sonia. She’s holding a sheet of pink construction paper, the same color as her lips. When she reaches me, she holds it out.

For a six-year-old, she’s got some talent, and this drawing is among her better ones, in a way. The six figures actually resemble us—Patrick, Steven, the twins, me, and Sonia. We’re all standing in our garden, holding hands under a tree that’s blooming with white stars. She’s got the twins in matching outfits and she’s drawn something that looks more like a suitcase than a briefcase in Patrick’s free hand. Steven wears his new pin; my hair is pulled back into a ponytail. Around my wrist and Sonia’s are bracelets: red for her and black for me. We’re all smiling under a sun she’s decorated with orange hearts.

“Beautiful,” I say, taking the drawing. But I don’t think it’s beautiful. I think it’s the ugliest fucking thing I’ve ever seen.

Instead of standing next to Patrick, or even at the far end of the family line, bookending our kids, I’m fifth. After my husband, after Steven, after the eleven-year-old twins. And Sonia has made me smaller than everyone except for her. I manage a forced smile and take her into my lap, pressing her head against me so she can’t see the tears that are welling up, that I won’t be able to contain.

I think of Jackie, and those last words she spoke in our crappy Georgetown apartment, the accusations and admonitions. Jackie was right: I was living in a bubble. I inflated it myself, one breath at a time.

And so here we are. Me, my daughter, and the wrist counters that keep us in line. I wonder what Jackie would have to say about it. Probably something like Good work, Jean. You gassed up the car and drove it straight into hell. Enjoy the burn.

Yeah. That’s what she’d say. And she’d be right.

I blot tears with my sleeve and set my face into a less crooked state before turning Sonia’s tiny head toward me and planting a kiss on her cheek. Then I check my word counter.

Sixty-three words so far today. Plenty left for what I have to say to President Myers.

Chapter Twenty-one

TWENTY-ONE

I can do this, I think.