chainsaw. Considering the stupidity that got me into this situation . . . how apt a comparison. My stomach grew queasy, so I turned the shower to hot, stripped, and stood under the spray of water. Red swirled down the drain, and at the sight, cold prickles erupted on the back of my neck. The memory crashed into me like a tidal wave, snatched the beating heart from my chest, and let it sink to the depths of the Atlantic. Holding Mr. Bunny by his droopy ear, I watched the shiny red car pull into the drive from my window. I’d only seen the woman a couple of times after Papa put me to bed and thought I was sleeping. I frowned, remembering the day before, when I told the neighbor boy I didn’t have a mother. He looked at me like I was so dumb, and then, he said everyone had a mom, and if they didn’, they were an orphan. I didn’t want to be an orphan. This woman had long blonde hair, just like me. Maybe she was my mother. Suddenly, I felt very thirsty, and the glass Papa left near my bed wouldnt do. The water was old, and it probably had dust in it. Mr. Bunny in hand, I tiptoed down the stairs in my nightgown. Papa always said he had a sixth sense that would tell him when I wasn’t in bed like I was supposed to be, but only a four-year-old would believe that, and I turned five yesterday. My tummy dipped when shouts drifted down the hall. Papa never raised his voice. He must be very angry. I drifted toward the sounds and stopped in front of the closed library door. Bang! My heart jumped. I leapt back, and Mr. Bunny slipped from my fingers. Then, it went silent. Red paint leaked from beneath the door, soaking my favorite stuffed animal. He was mine, and now he was ruined. I scooped him up while a sob worked its way up my throat. Warm paint stained my hands and nightgown. It was a mess, and now I’d have to take a bath. Everything was ruined. The library door opened. Papa said a bad word and blocked the doorway with his body, but I could see his friend asleep on the floor with long blonde hair and red paint all over her. Closing the door, Papa picked me up, my cheeks wet with tears. “Mr. Bunny is ruined,” I cried.