The Doll's House

by Lisa Unger

Back in my room, I put the Emma doll on my window seat, leaning her against one of the plush pillows. I fall asleep watching her eyes shine in the light of the moon.

I don’t trust that doll.

We always have a thousand reasons not to do the thing we most want to do.

“How does he even know you’re here?” asks Penelope, eyes wide. “I don’t know,” I answer. “Lemme see your backpack,” says Racer, jumping off the desk with ease.

Predators and abusers, my shrink has said, can sense your pain and weakness. It’s their gift.