On Devyn's desk was a drawing of hieroglyphs, ones she copied from a book on Mesopotamia, cuneiform scripts of pictographs. Never had she discussed archeology or anthropology, or mentioned any course she was taking on the Greco-Roman empire. Exactly what those drawings represented to her was a mystery to Zoe. Her eyes drifted across the surface and zeroed in on a receipt lying on the floor. The Tribe, Devyn’s favorite salon for the disenfranchised and disaffected. Perhaps she was deviating from her usual schedule of self-mutilation, which began at age 15 and continued each year on her birthday. She had been unaware of the lies she fabricated to start the celebrations until one hot, summer day at the house they rented on Shelter Island, she walked in on her and was blinded by the Austrian crystal icicle dangling from her belly button. On her 17th birthday, she pierced her nose. On her 18th, she pierced her tragus. “Hurt like fucking hell, Mom.” Zoe told her to stop, so the following year she abandoned that form of torture and substituted the sharp jolts for the dull scrape and occasional jab of a Burmese python tattoo that twined around her neck.