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Heather looks at me over the rim of her cup. “Then I’ll have to make choices I’d rather not make.”

“What choices?”

“Which of you I keep. And which are ungrateful little shits.” She takes another drink of coffee.

I look toward the window. The backyard is on the other side of it. Grass. Fence I could scale. A tree near the back corner.

I look at Heather again. “What happened to ungrateful little shits?”

She sets down her coffee. “They don’t get taken care of anymore.”

I swallow against a knot in my throat. “What does that mean?”

“It means they’re dead.” Heather picks up another strawberry.

“You killed them?” I can’t stop looking at her.

“I gave them every opportunity to behave.”

“How many?”

“I don’t like the way you’re asking that.”

“How the fuck am I supposed to ask it?”

“Nicely.”

Apparently deciding which of us dies belongs in the same category as choosing what to make for breakfast. I laugh once. “What happened to them?”

Heather glances toward the window. “I dressed them.”

I don’t say anything.

“One last time,” she adds. “Something pretty. I did their hair too.”

“Then what?”

“They’re in the backyard.”

I turn toward the window again.

Heather reaches across the table and nudges my plate toward me. “Don’t be an ungrateful little shit. Eat your eggs before they get cold.”

“Is it drugged?”

“All your breakfasts will be. Once your body adjusts, missing a dose will be unpleasant.”

“The same shit you gave me yesterday?”

“Yes.”

I stare at her. “You’re making me dependent on it.”

“I’m making you manageable.”

I look at the window again. Yesterday I thought Heather having rules was good. Rules can be learned. Learn the rules. Learn her. Keep her calm. Wait until she makes a mistake. Now I know what happens if I make the wrong one. “You can give me the pills. If that’s easier.”

“It would keep the dosage more precise,” she says.