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The video I’ve picked is of a 7000-series. I name the stations as they appear. Court House, Rosslyn, Foggy Bottom.

One time, Alyssa called that last one Swamp Ass station. I didn’t think it was funny, but it made her giggle. “Get it? Foggy Bottom? Swamp Ass? Oh, come on. You’re allergic to fun.”

That was the first time we hung out after that party. After I put a hand around her throat.

I get hungry, though, as humans tend to do, and the contraband snack cakes under my bed have gone disgustingly stale. So I wander downstairs by four in the afternoon, sifting through the brain fog to recall what we have in the pantry so I can prepare a paltry defense. If I grab anything other than a handful of almonds, I’ll get a stern talking-to: Dinner’s in three hours, can’t you wait?

Mom’s not here, though.

I frown, peering across the first floor. Not in the kitchen, or the living room, or the backyard. No sounds floating down from the office that tell me she’s filming, and no notes informing me that she’s flounced off to some fancy gallery opening or another.

But her purse is sitting in its usual spot by the door.

Now’s my chance.

I snatch it off the hook and fumble it open.

Maybe she’s finally drunk herself stupid and passed out upstairs. As I dig up her wallet and paw through the collection of coupons and credit cards, my brain offers the possibility that she’s actively dying of alcohol poisoning and I need to call 911. Or I can check on her in an hour, to see if she’s aspirated vomit and choked to death.

There’s her lawyer’s business card, health insurance card, dental card, at least three different gift cards to three different boutiques. Not the key card.

Come on, where the hell is the penthouse key? I’m out of it, my fingers are halfway numb, but I’m not so out of it that I’d miss it, right? It’s black and gold, with the building’s name emblazoned right across the top. The wallet is a bust, so I drop it to the side, start sifting through all the other shit in Mom’s purse. A sunglasses case, a tin of powder so she’ll always be picture-perfect, a pack of gum that expired a year ago but still smells cloyingly of oranges—

The basement door slams open.

“Ma’am,” the producer says, following two steps behind my mother, “this was clearly in the contract.”

“Clearly?“ Mom howls. She stomps onto the first floor, jerking away from him like he’s on fire. “I spent thousands of dollars on that fucking lawyer and—”

She shrieks with frustration, and then she sees me.

She stops.

So angry that she’s locked up. So full of rage she can’t even move.

“Ma’am?” the producer says. Daniel isn’t with him. “I’d be more than happy to discuss the specifics—”

“Later,” Mom snarls. “I need to talk to my daughter.”

“Right. We’ll be in touch.”

The producer leaves, and then it’s Mom and me.

She’s as still as a statue.

“I was looking for a Metro card,” I lie, keeping my eyes fixed on the couch as I slowly put her wallet back into her purse, then handfuls of old ChapStick and cough drops. The same rules for dealing with an angry dog. Don’t make eye contact, don’t run, don’t trigger the prey drive. “Not stealing cash or anything.”

Mom says, “Did you know there was a voice recorder?”

“What?”

“A voice recorder. In the visiting room. Under the chair.”

I’m not falling for that. “No,” I say. “I didn’t.”

“He called you son.”

Every exhausted cell in my body slams into high alert, and it feels like taking a brick to the temple.