Chapter 4: Dot

Dot Winslow let herself in at six on Wednesday with a cast iron skillet and a spare key.

She lived on the floor below mine and cooked dinner for a restaurant forty hours a week.

The other twenty she spent cooking for me.

"I made too much cornbread," she said, kicking the door shut. "Again. Wynn, why is there a tall woman in your kitchen?"

Eleven stood at the sink in one of my gray T-shirts, rinsing a mug.

I had made her wear it.

I hadn't been able to look at the grey slip any longer.

"She's not a woman," I said. "She's a unit."

Dot put the skillet down on the counter very slowly.

She is five foot two and has never in her life backed away from anything.

She walked around the island and stared up into Eleven's face.

"No," she said.

"Dot."

"That is Margot Ketteridge."

"It's her face."

"It's Margot Ketteridge's whole entire face. You spent two hundred thousand dollars on Margot Ketteridge's face."

"Two hundred and twelve."

Dot turned to look at me.

For about five seconds she didn't say anything, and I had a long time to regret telling her my plan at New Year's.

I'd said it as a joke.

She had not laughed.

"Oh my God," she said, finally. "You did it. You actually did it."

"I want to be clear that I'm not proud."

"You are so proud. You've been glowing since the door."

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