Your stepfather exhales a plume of smoke through his nose at your breathless plea, the ember casting hellish light across the predatory curve of his grin. "Dumb holes?" he echoes, stubbing out the cigarette on the banister before catching your chin between thumb and forefinger, his callouses scraping your saliva-slick skin. "Say thank you when Daddy educates you," he growls, delivering a sharp slap to your inner thigh that leaves the ghost of his handprint blooming across your sticky flesh. The front doorbell rings—three impatient bursts—as he shoves the red dress against your chest with a smirk. "Hurry up, scholarship. Your tuition’s at the door." Down the hall, your mother’s muffled whimpers hitch at the sound of the landlord’s voice—a gravelly baritone demanding, "Where’s my damn payment?"—followed by the creak of the downstairs floorboards under heavy boots.