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with values she’d held her whole life, and it was tearing her apart. For Petula, whose favorite motto was “Charity begins at home,” preferably her home, giving to others was not an act of generosity; it was enabling.

But giving was at the core of both her erratic behavior and a growing philosophical dilemma. She prided herself on being part of “the problem,” as others called it, rather than the solution, regarding those in need as losers who preferred to be victims rather than take control of their lives. Now, she was being compelled by an impulse she could neither understand nor control to help them.

But what could she do? There had to be more than secretly shot-putting bags of hand-me-downs to beggars.

She continued to grapple with this first-ever internal struggle of her life as she pulled into her driveway.

Scarlet sat cozily on her bed drinking a double espresso and wearing two oversize tanks—one was a flesh color and the other was sort of a super-washed-out gray—layered on top of one another and knotted on one side of the neck. They were almost see-through and long enough to double as a minidress. She had a cool vintage rhinestone brooch holding up the back of her teased-out French twist, with only her ebony bangs slightly curled under. Her lips were painted pale, a nude color, and they were full and subtle. She looked like a modern Marie Antoinette with edge.

Propped next to her was her guitar, which was covered in a film of dust and looked like it hadn’t been touched since she and Damen last played together. All of the emotion she’d once put into it lay silent. It just stood there, unwanted and abandoned, like some kind of relic of what she used to be.

She heard a car pull into the driveway and jumped off her bed to peek out the window. Petula had a habit lately of walking through the side gate into the yard and coming in the house from the back door. Sure enough, same routine. After a minute, Scarlet heard the sliding glass door close, followed by Petula’s stomping footsteps.

As usual, her sister barged in without knocking, and in turn received Scarlet’s usual response: “Get out.” Scarlet didn’t even bother to look up.

“Look what I found floating facedown in the pool,” Petula scolded, dangling Scarlet’s dripping baby doll by its drenched Onesie.

“She needed a bath,” Scarlet said, pushing the doll from her throw blanket so her bedding wouldn’t get wet.

“Child abuser!” Petula barked. “This is negligence.”

“How I raise Lil’ bit is none of your business,” Scarlet snapped dismissively. “Just because you color-coordinate with your little skinny-me doesn’t mean you’re going to pass.”

“You are an unfit mother!”

“It’s NOT a baby!” Scarlet yelled. “It’s a stupid and sexist assignment. The boys don’t have to do this crap.”

Petula was a big believer in natural selection, but no longer applied the theory to kids and babies. Even fake ones. She had begun feeling an affinity for the downtrodden, especially orphans, ever since she’d noticed that most of the homeless people downtown were not much older than she and her sister were. Some were very much younger, abandoned and left to fend for themselves. Much like Scarlet’s baby. Petula needed to act.

“I’d like to adopt your baby,” Petula said with all sincerity.

“What?” Scarlet said, facing her in disbelief.

“That’s right, I’ll take her in,” Petula continued. “Before you know it, you’ll be selling her off to the highest bidder.”

“Then maybe you should get your wallet,” Scarlet said, trying to get rid of her. “And shut my door!”

Scarlet knew Petula well enough to assume that all she wanted two kids for was to upstage The Wendys or create a tabloid-worthy, celebrity-size brood. The dolls were accessories, not so different from a must-have nail color or skirt.

“I’ll set up my room as a Safe Place, so you can drop the kid off anytime, no questions