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He spits on the floor. “Listen, asshole, I’ve never even seen you before! Whoever you think I am, you’ve sadly been misled. A mistake like this could land you in hot water.”

“Teenagers only.” I quote his words back to him. “I don’t fuck anything with wrinkles.”

“What?” He responds quickly, but not quick enough. The brief pause was long enough to confirm that those sentiments are familiar to him.

He tracks me as I stride out of the bathroom, noting another tap of blood as I cross over the threshold.

“You don’t understand,” he defends. “I didn’t mean it like that⁠—”

“Sorry, can’t hear you!” I shout back from the other room.

I retrieve the supplies from my backpack, but as soon as I’m in the bathroom again, I quickly realize I can’t access any of the electrical outlets on account of the plastic, and even if I did . . . the plastic creates another problem. If only I had an extension cord . . . Damn.

Wait, I might have a solution . . .

“You don’t understand,” he says, failing to placate me. “I didn’t⁠—”

I step out of the room to grab a couple more things, and return dragging in a cumbersome ironing board that screeches across the floor, cutting off his words.

“They looked eighteen!”

I freeze. They looked eighteen.

Those three words validate my plan for tonight. Pedophiles don’t get redemption arcs.

He winces, forehead wrinkling in pure bafflement as I attempt to open up the possibly busted ironing board in the bathtub. He flinches at the shrill metal-on-metal cacophony of legs rubbing against each other. Robert says something about context, but I can barely hear him over the shrieking frame as I feel around for the locking mechanism underneath.

“Wow, that sure is loud,” I shout over the earsplitting noise while continuing to fumble with it. “Do you hear that? Like, why did they do this accordion leg thing? What happened to just having legs that fold out?” Surely, there must be a design better than this one.

At last, I lock it in place. “Got it!” I say proudly, breathing a sigh of relief. I point to the metal hook. “If it was a snake it would have bit me!”

“I can pay you cash!” His brow furrows as he watches me get set up. “Today.”

Making a small slice in the plastic, I weave the cord through the opening. I plug in the electric clothes iron, then set it on the board to begin heating, and place my other tools beside it like I’m prepping for a client. I like to have everything within reach.

Wait, what setting should I be using?

I read the four options: cotton, wool, synthetics, and delicates . . . Delicates seems appropriate.

I adjust the dial to the lightest setting.

“Now, just hold on—” he begins.

I clap him on the back. “Your money’s no good here, pal.”

“Then what do you want?”

I pinch the bridge of my nose and exhale, take out my phone, and crouch down to play the video of Anna for him. Robert’s eyes widen when he recognizes his voice—“Hey, that’s you talking!” I exclaim.

“That’s not me.”

I exit the video and tuck my phone back into my suit but not before starting up my playlist—this time I’m prepared. I learned with Steve that six consecutive plays of “Hook” by Blues Traveler is a hard limit. Instead, I set the playlist to shuffle—I like to live dangerously.

“You paid money to do that, just like I’m paying money to do this.”

“Do you get it now?” I ask. “I’m here because I want to be. Sure, I could say that I’m doing it because I want to do a service to my community, but that would be a lie. My motives are purely selfish.”

“She was legal!” he screams.