She had been talking to the Devil again.

Mostly he came at night in a terry-cloth bathrobe, his hard, hairless chest glittering in the moonlight.

They'd play Scrabble and eat Cheetoes.

They'd talk about how her mother had kicked her out of the house with nothing but two over-ripe bananas and a shopping bag full of second-hand maternity clothes.

The Devil would say, "Hey kiddo. It's not your fault. It's my fault. I let you down."

He'd pat her head and they'd play thumb wars.

Sometimes he would even let her wear his horns.