Sarah Jane Bellum, only eight years old, sat cross-legged on her bedroom floor, staring at the prized porcelain doll encased in glass. Sarah Lee Wonder—her mother’s most treasured possession—stood behind the pane, pristine and untouchable. The doll’s flawless features seemed to mock Sarah Jane, its tinted eyes as hollow as the love she craved.

Her older sister Jezebeth loomed above her, hands twisting her skirt into impatient knots. Jezebeth’s voice, sharp and cutting, filled the room. “Oh, Jezebel,” she said, using the pet name she knew Sarah Jane despised. “Why can’t you be more like her?” She gestured at Sarah Lee Wonder. “Silent. Pretty. Perfect.”

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Sarah Jane winced, lowering her gaze. Her voice was a whisper. “My name’s Sarah Jane.”

Jezebeth crouched down, her breath warm against Sarah’s cheek. “Do you know what I’d do if you were a doll?” she said with mock sweetness. “I’d keep you on my shelf. You’d never talk back. You’d always do what I say. You’d be my perfect little doll forever.”

Sarah Jane hugged her knees, willing herself not to cry. But later, when she fell into a restless sleep, her dreams betrayed her.