Twelve minutes later, Amy is here.

"What?" she says, as if she had no choice but to come over, as if she had anything better to do on a Monday afternoon.

"What. Let's get high."

She shrugs and follows me into the house. She doesn't ask about the blood stains on the carpet on the way to the basement, but I figure she already knows, whether through Kat, or Simon, or someone, someone is always telling her all the shit that goes down here, she is always in the loop.

She slinks down the steps behind me.

Ed Droste harmonizes with himself, his voice crescendos as we reach the foot of the stairs, and this seems to appease her, at least to the point where she sits down on the floor and looks up at me.

The Tuesday sunset pours golden light across the floor, across her.

This is Amy Ellis, seven years old, with her legs folded over each other, waiting for her father to praise her, to tell her that he loves her.

I don't either.

Where the records are, I pull out a tiny bag of weed and an old wooden pipe.

Amy is still looking up at me and I sit on the floor, too, her eyes already tired from half a workweek, I let her take a hit, two, three, and I wait.

The song is on repeat, and when she crawls over to me, the same line that played when we sat down begins again.

"Tomorrow's Friday," she says. "We can have dinner, or something."

I mumble approval.

"My messenger in disguise," she sings along, her head on my shoulder, I turn, just to look, and our lips touch, and there's an explosion, our clothes are off, our bodies restless from a week's worth of tumult and tranquility, her nipples hard from the cool Saturday night breathing in through the window, we topple over, I am above her, our bodies writhe in ecstasy, we climax together, collapse into each other, and fall asleep as the Monday sunrise glides across the walls.