Take Care of Yourself

Amy gripped the wheel tighter, pulling up to the estate with minutes to spare. Late, broke, running on fumes—tonight had to be different. She couldn’t afford another missed shot. Mrs. Dent greeted her first, all warmth and perfume, Mr. Dent two steps behind her, silent and unreadable, the kind of stare that didn’t blink. They walked her through the house like nothing was wrong. Marble, silk sheets, a wing just for her and her kid. The kind of comfort she stopped dreaming about years ago. On the couch, the papers waited. Still no mention of the patient. Amy started to ask, then stopped cold. Mrs. Dent simply nodded toward her husband—already out, thick and heavy in his fist, stroking slow, deliberate. So this was the job. Fuck or be fucked by whatever life she’d been fighting off. Her choice.