# Chapter 7
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After a gentle nudge, Polly woke up and uncurled, her little groans muffled by the blankets. A nurse shirt fell on her: white, with buttons lining the placket, red hems, a chest pocket with an embroidered red cross. On the inside of the collar was a huge S---the smallest size Mystery could find.

"Try this on, sweetie," he said, "you'll need an uniform."

"What? Why?" She rubbed her eyes and threw the covers aside, then jumped off.

"You do work here now, don't you?"

"No one said anything about work. I'm too young for that ...." 

"Nonsense."

With all the excess fabric hanging from her, she took the shape of a snow angel; sleeves arching from her elbows into wings, the hem flowing mid-thigh into a bell, the neckline falling along. A spin, a shrug.

"I'm gonna have to make some adjustments, then."

"Adjustments?"

"On your shirt, silly. Come on." He held her hand and left the room.

"But I'm still not working here."

"Nonsense."
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The tailoring room; one of many fifth-floor operating rooms repurposed into workshops; the coziest place in the hospital. Each side of the gable ceiling featured a big, circular window. Brick walls were sprinkled with peeling blue wallpaper, greenshield lichen and moss; cabinets lined along. A surgical light, with broken bulbs and a fair share of rust, hung above a padded table in the center. On a rolling cabinet nearby, Mystery's faithful sewing kit: a wooden box, clean enough to shine; the words "J--- F.M. Burns. Love, Mom & Dad" were carved into the lid, with the first name scratched out.

Time to work. First, he put a sad iron on the sink, hoping the sun would heat it enough---if only this floor had electricity. Second, he marked her shirt on where it met the hip, then undressed her---one arm out, the other, careful not to stare. With it on the table, he grabbed a piece of chalk and drew a curve for the new hem---confident, long strokes. Polly wandered around the corner of his eye, staring out the windows; as he reached into the box again, he watched her scrutinize her appearance in one of the mirrors. Her tail wagged like a hypnotist's watch. Tick, tock. There he went again. Mystery got the damn scissors and began cutting the fabric.

"Have you ever gotten clothes made just for you, Polly?"

"No, never."

"Why not?"

"I just buy them already made. I had a friend who had some clothes like that, though."

"You deserve better."

"What's wrong with that?" She turned to see him, one hand in the air from picking at feathers.

"Pre-made is boring, made to appease buffoons of the lowest order. If you're working with the world-renowned Doctor, you'll need to rise above the norm." He measured the edge of the cut with tape, then grabbed a red t-shirt from a cabinet and cut a strip from it.

" ... You're crazy." Polly turned her back again.

"No, you are crazy."

"No, you."

Mystery stifled a laugh. With a threaded needle, he began to sew the strip onto the nurse shirt as a hem. "You know, you should look at me when I talk to you. It's only fair."

"I see you from the mirror."

"I don't see you see me."

Scorn in her eyes, she catwalked her way to the nearest stool; the cushion gave a meek puff under her feather-weight. "Why are you giving me a pre-made shirt, if they're that bad?"

"Unfortunately," he gave an exaggerated sigh, "the hospital has a dress code. This is to make sure we can separate visitors from personnel."

"What's a person all?"

"Hoo, I don't really know, it's what the higher-ups tell me."

"Higher-ups?"

"Yeah, they own the place. Haven't seen them in a good while."

"So you know the owners of this hospital?"

"Yeah, they were nice people. Up until they left me, then they weren't so nice."

All she did next was watch his hands, grumpy-faced; probably thinking about not being here. Didn't matter to him.

He was near the end of the stitch. "Oh, Polly, is the iron hot enough?"

"The what?"

"It's on the sink, see if the flat part is hot."

The cushion puffed again, feet pattered the tiled floor, then a pained yelp: "Hot!"

"Bring it here." With the seam tied off, he pressed the hem with the iron. It wasn't all that hot, but he had to make do with it. "Let's see if it's better."

The new hem hovered along her iliac crest, which in turn guided the eyes downward; nested inbetween wide hips, underlined by the creases of her inner thighs, her little honeypot. His sheepish smile broke when she cleared her throat, bringing attention to the sleeves she waved---they were still too long.

"Alright, alright, I'll fix the rest."

By the time the midday sun came through, Polly wore the finished piece. The sleeves turned puffy, with its fabric tucked into another strip of the t-shirt; the neckline was tightened, so were the armholes. For the first time ever, a rosy smile spread across her face---perhaps against her will, but it didn't matter. Her reflection fiddled with the seams of every adjustment he made.

"Don't you look nice in it?" Mystery asked, petting her shoulders from behind.

A tiny whisper came.

"Hm?"

"Thank you," a bit louder, "thank you, thank you."

A genuine, cheek-to-cheek smile took control of his face. He saw it himself, in the mirror; a strange happiness overwhelmed him, one he'd never felt in his life---at least, not that he could remember. The man in the mirror looked less like a monster. "You're welcome."
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Now that food was in the oven, they had to wait. Mystery thought about giving the kitchen a clean-up in the meantime. Most surfaces were dominated by either bits of food, dark splotches or rust---sometimes all three at once. What was left of the foam ceiling was plagued by mold. Piles of pots and pans on every stovetop, dark rings on every sink basin. Every footstep sunk and glued onto the ground. It was no place to put his guest in. But one thing still puzzled him, enough to be of top priority in his mind.

"What do you mean you don't know what hot pockets are?" he started, leaning against the counter.

"I just don't, I never ate them," Polly said.

"How? They're so good."

"I don't usually eat frozen foods. My moms make food."

"Mom*s*?"

"Yeah, I have two mommies."

"So you were adopted?"

"How did you know?"

"Well, how else would they get a kid?"

"Um ... by kissing really hard?"

He chuckled. "Neither of them have a dick."

"What's a dick?" she whispered.

"The thing you love." Mystery pulled her closer; with how small she was, her face was at crotch-level. "Right here."

"But, what does that have to do?"

"How are you gonna make a baby without a dick?"

She stared into the distance with a crumpled frown. He could almost hear the gears turning in her brain, then crashing into each other as she was left speechless, shrugging. Even first-graders would've had a clue about how it worked, but Polly? She looked too old to be so innocent.

"You oughta learn about the birds and bees, sweetie. I'll teach you *all* about it."

"No thanks."

"Don't no-thanks me, it's important." If it wasn't for his good mood, he would've been choking her by now---not with his hand. "We'll do it later, though."

"Can we please not do anything with private parts? At least, not so early ...."

"Early?"

"I mean, I .... I just got bullied two days ago." She grimaced and held her own stomach.

"Bullied?" It was hard not to laugh, but he contained himself well.

"Yeah, like, in the butt."

"Oh, Polly. I won't be as mean as whoever did that to you. It'll be an educational activity. Just think of me as your teacher, and you're my naughty little student, and I'm teaching sex-ed for the day and I need a volunteer, and---"

"Alright, I get it, I get it."

"Glad you get it, girl." He unglued from her and stretched his arms, setting a foot towards the exit. "Whaddya say we get started on a skirt to match your fit?"

Staring at the ground, she circled a foot. Something was brewing in that head of hers.

"Most nurses keep it simple and wear white skirts with it, but I suppose a plaid one wouldn't break the dress code, eh?"

No response.

"Who knows, you might even get a pair of panties to go with it. Real nice, lacey, cotton panties, with cartoons on the front and a ribbon. What do you think would be a good theme for it?"

When she looked up at him, tears welled on her puppydog eyes. "Do we have to do that thing a lot?"

"Hm? What thing?"

"The ... the thing with the private parts."

"Yep. No way around it." As blunt as he had to be, coupled with the warmest smile he could muster.

"Why? Do you hate me, or something?" Her voice quivered.

"I don't, I love you very much. We'll do it *because* I love you, and you love me too."

"Why does it only hurt me?"

"You gotta learn to enjoy it."

"I never wanted this." Here came the sobs; she buried her face into her hands, where tears trickled down to her forearms. Whining, more whining, and somewhere in the middle: "I never wanted to be nasty like you."

"But sweetie, it can't be undone. You'll always be nasty."

"No, it hurts, it hurts! I don't want it *any more!*" Then came the screams, the hiccups, the why-mes. They became loud enough to pierce through a layer of his blissful ignorance. Cowering tiny, hiding into herself.

Mystery hated it. He hated seeing her like this. It might've been hot a few days ago, but now it was just inconvenient. For a doll, she could be a very bratty one. The smile he'd kept from wavering dropped into a snarl---he snatched her wrists and pulled her face closer to his. And as soon as he did it, his own anger faltered. Her wide eyes truly were a window to the soul: he could see the despair, the pent-up anger and sadness---the slightest hint of longing, perhaps, for a mother---all too clearly. Her noises stopped, save for a few hiccups, as if she braced herself for punishment. The ingredients were all there; he couldn't let her turn out the same way Jeremy did.

His snarl softened, and he hissed to her: "It doesn't have to hurt. If you cooperate, there won't be any reason for me to hurt you. Got it?"

Once she nodded, he let go of her, almost with a push. Mystery sat on the ground, slouching against the oven door with a deep breath in, then out. Polly stood quiet, hiding her cries, staring at him as he stared back. He couldn't keep the scorn in his face any longer. It was too early to be overwhelming her this way. Had he lost his cool, he could've lost her again---this time for good. A break was due.

Inside the oven, the hot pockets were golden; probably a good time to pull out. Another deep breath, then he stressed a smile. "Looks like lunch is ready."