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her.”
    â€œWell, she’s not a happy woman, Madame Bovary.”
    â€œBut can’t Berthe make her happy, Mom?” I felt a tightening in my throat.
    â€œNo, sweetness. Children can’t make their parents happy. It’s not their job.”
    There was so much I wanted to ask, but we were interrupted. She had a partners’ meeting. I stayed alone in my fort as long as I could. But I was weak, even then. I snuck into her desk drawer and reached for the bag of chocolates hidden at the back. The bag was nearly full; she’d never count the truffles in the bag, right? I unwrapped the crinkled foil and crammed the soft milk chocolate spheres in my mouth. With my knees drawn to my chest and my head bowed slightly, I fit beneath her desk. There, folded into myself, a word came to me: comfort .
    We reach the villa and Curly Blonde thrusts her hip against the door. “Door sticks sometimes, so you have to mess with it a little.”
    The cottage is tiny, lined with painted cement block walls and a thin, grayish-blue carpet stretched over cement floors. There is a room on each side of the hallway; another door at the end of the hall must lead to the bathroom.
    â€œWe’re in here.” CB bounds into the room on the right and flips a light switch.
    The room is sparse, with two beds covered in faded navy quilts. A long, shallow closet borders one side of the room. A sliding glass door looks over the darkness.
    Her bed is on the other side of the room, and her space looks like what I always imagined a girls’ college dorm room to look like: black-and-white pictures of friends and colorful construction paper cards with Ashley ( Oh , I think, that spelling doesn’t seem right ) written in obese bubble letters plastered to the blue sticky board over her bed. A few self-help books are stacked next to the digital alarm clock on the built-in shelf. A small stuffed dog, blue bear, and one-eared rabbit sit dutifully on the other side of the clock.
    On my side, a black suitcase sits at attention at the foot of the bed.
    â€œThey unpacked for you.” CB kicks off her dirty, Sharpie-decorated Keds. “They have to do a luggage check.” She heaves her body onto the bed.
    â€œAre you serious? What for?” My breath is shallow. Stop. I will not allow myself to be more than mildly irritated. All of this—the girl, the threadbare carpet, the cement walls—is temporary. I just have to wait until Eden gets me out of here.
    â€œYou know, the usual. Razors. Laxatives. Food.”
    I cross the room and throw open the closet door. A few articles of clothing hang limply from the wooden rod.
    â€œWhere the hell are my clothes?” I paw through two pairs of jeans, the oversized sweatshirt that still smells like Josh if I close my eyes, three long-sleeved henleys, and my Braves T-shirt. Myrunning shoes are strewn at an angle on the floor, and I right them carefully, suddenly enraged.
    â€œThey probably took some of your stuff. You can’t have anything that’s too tight or short. Nothing with spaghetti straps, either.”
    â€œThis is bullshit.” I jerk Josh’s sweatshirt from a bent wire hanger and pull it over my head.
    â€œI know it sucks, but it’s not a bad idea. It would be super triggering for me to see all these skinny girls in tiny little tops and stuff. Wouldn’t it suck for you?”
    My body goes hot. Of course it wouldn’t be like that for me. I am one of the skinny girls! Has she not noticed? Does she not see me?
    â€œI want my stuff back.” This is Dad’s fault. My skin feels hot, then cold again, and the room goes fuzzy. My fingertips find my chest, to count the bones. I feel the cell phone in my bra.
    â€œTrust me, it really sucks at first, but—”
    â€œI’m going out.”
    She’s saying something about bed checks, but I slam the door against her words. I don’t take another breath until I’m