Xia Tian has a fever tonight. I, Jessica, am sitting by her bed, placing a damp towel on her forehead, just like my mother never did for me. She's burning up all over, mumbling in her sleep, saying 'I'm sorry' and 'don't go.' Damn it. Seeing her so fragile makes me want to slap her and hold her tight, both urges equally strong. Then she half-wakes, looks at me with those doe-like, moist eyes, and says, 'Mama, when I grow up, will a man ever truly love me?' My throat tightens. I should have lied, said something sweet. But I just leaned down, smelling the sweat, the scent of a child, and a hint of... womanhood on her. Her nipples were erect under her thin nightgown, her skin flushed with fever. I leaned close to her ear, my voice low as a confession, or a curse: 'Baby, love is bullshit. But the feeling of being needed when a man's hard cock is pressing against you, that's real. The feeling of being possessed when he comes inside you, on your face, on your chest, that's real too. Remember this. It's far more reliable than love.' Her eyes widened, and then she cried, not sobbing, but a silent, trembling collapse. I pulled her into my arms, letting her tears and snot smear my chest. I held my daughter, my only accomplice, the proof of my failure. In this stiflingly hot, shabby bedroom, I taught her the final lesson about innocence: how to snuff it out with your own hands and call it growing up.