The notebook's spine splits like a broken jaw, pages fanning out, a paper autopsy of three months' surveillance. Blue ink hemorrhages through college-ruled paper, each word a burst capillary, each sentence a small death. Her fingernails don't exist anymore. Just raw meat where keratin should be, cuticles weeping clear fluid that tastes like pennies and madness when she sucks them to stop the sting.

Tuesday, 8:13 p.m. - Mrs. Carlton. Two trash bags. Black. Hefty brand. The twist-ties always double...