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Mom slips into my peripheral vision. She’s got her phone out, camera pointed at us, and when my eyes turn to her, she waves me away. Don’t look, she’s not saying, you’re ruining the shot. It’s supposed to be candid.

I glare. Who gave her permission to bring a phone past security?

Mom flicks my attention away again. My teeth grind, but I raise my chin, tilt my head, give my best angle on instinct.

“I thought you’d be happier about it,” Dad admits. “You’re getting the cash a full seven years early. That’s a deal if I’ve ever heard one.”

I guess. Mom made it clear: As long as I cooperate with the documentary, I get my trust at eighteen instead of twenty-five. Half a million dollars. Enough to get out of here. Start testosterone, buy a tiny condo in Chicago or Seattle, invest the rest. But actually getting that money means pretending to be a girl for a year. And playing nice with the documentary crew. And not losing my shit in the process.

I’m not sure I can do that.

“Terms could be better,” I mutter as Mom adjusts the phone to get a better shot.

Dad tsks at me. “You’ll be fine.”

“Morgan,” Mom says, squinting at her screen. “You really should’ve run your makeup by me before we left the house. The camera makes you look like a whore.”

I snatch the phone out of her hand and whip it at the wall.

It misses her head by inches. Mom squeals. The producer recoils. The phone crashes against the cinder block and clatters across the tile floor, half the screen a wreck of dead pixels and shattered glass. The pretty rose-gold case sits around it like a broken eggshell.

A moment of silence.

My heart knocks against my ribs. We all stare at the mess.

Except for the producer, who is looking at me like I’m the most interesting thing he’s ever seen.

Mom whirls to bare her teeth at me and says, “You bitch.”

And Dad laughs.

It’s not a manic laugh. Nothing stereotypically serial killer. Only a gentle chuckle. But I can hear it through the receiver anyway, even with the phone dangling from my fingers.

“Get out,” Dad says. The grainy voice is difficult to understand—I have to stare hard at his mouth, pick apart the shape of his lips to confirm what consonants he’s using. Dad points at Mom, then the producer. “Bellamy, take your little cameraman and get out.”

“But—” Mom protests.

“Give me a moment with my daughter.”

Mom doesn’t move. The muscles in her neck stand out. A bitter taste rises in the back of my throat.

But after a second, she stoops to pick up the pieces of her phone, and the producer knocks on the door to explain that they’ll both be stepping out for a moment, and suddenly they’re gone and I’m alone.

I don’t want to be alone with Dad.

When Dad mimes for me to put the phone back up to my ear, I do as I’m told. My fingernail tears at the wound on my thumb, turning it from a small red streak to a weeping mess.

“You missed on purpose,” he says.

A forgotten piece of glass glints in the unrelenting white light of the Box. The phone was a new model, one of those big solid ones, and it would’ve done real damage if it’d connected.

I’m pretty sure the correctional officers can hear what we’re talking about. I’m pretty sure these phones are tapped.

“Yeah,” I say. “I did.”

Dad leans back to inspect me. “Why?”

“I’m not stupid.”