She began recording. The Daisy persona was perky, a girl-next-door who just happened to enjoy the sting of a rubber band on her inner thigh, the pinch of a clothespin, the specific ache of a pressure point. Her fans didn't want blood; they wanted struggle. They wanted her to count to ten, voice cracking, then reset and smile.

The screen went dark.

She deletes it. Closes her laptop. And goes to check on Lily, who is sleeping with the door unlocked.

"Hi, Mommy," Lily said.

Lily stared. She didn't cry. She didn't ask. She simply walked over, picked up a tube of bruise cream, and set it next to Chloe’s hand.

Five hundred dollars. That was two car payments. That was the difference between ramen and chicken for dinner.