Willa is eleven, small for her age, and perfect like a doll. But those bad hands. Red and white eczema boiling all up her fingers, palms, past the wrist. You have to squint to look at them, the those sore little hands. She doesn't scratch, knows not to. Even at night. She doesn't sleep. Her father knows, he must -- he must hear her, the little sounds of her. Little brown feet on those hardwood stairs, little slaps like a lit match in water. The flutter and sigh of her, the fridge door, a bowl and spoon. She can sleep tomorrow, in the heat, in the grass with Bea and Carpenter and so tonight she will brush her bangs from her eyes and move furniture, use bananas like Lincoln Logs, change channels slow past the blue, scrambled porn on TV. She slides tonight on the dirty, calloused soles of her feet, down the hall to the front door, rests her hand on the cool metal handle. Just a touch; she'll just touch it. And then look around, watch the dark. The humidifier turns on, the stove might beep. But no response from her father. Willa smiles wide and waves with her free hand to a dark corner by the stove, to let her dad know that she's brave, and remembers him. Look through drawers, paint every toenail. She is beautiful in that half-light, when the freezer makes the clouds and she follows them across and through those endless surfaces at 3am, even later. Willa is eleven and not concerned about God -- she believes in ghosts, video cameras with clocks in them, heat sensors. Everything. She can't see the cameras, they're too small, but she knows they're there. She is aware of him all the time, watching her, cameras everywhere reporting up to his little TV upstairs in his smoky, sad, room. So heknows that she's safe, so he doesn't have to worry. Not his normal TV, either, a secret one, her little form flickering there in green and white night vision. That tipping feeling, like one day she'll push it too far. He'll come roaring down the stairs to stop her, shout -- but not yet. So far she is doing okay.