The smell, Jasper knew, was killing her, even as she breathed the sweet trail of her father’s cinnamon cigarette. Her mother had tried to put him off it for a while when she was born, but this only lasted four years, so Jasper did not remember a world without that smell. This was home to her, and this was love; only pillows stained with that scented nicotine affection could offer her comfort as her mother railed at her from the other side of the door. Mrs. Cohen had always dreamt of becoming a certain type of girl, and her pregnancy filled her with hopes of recovering this dream that had already slipped into the black keyhole of the past. The baby, however, grew into this Jasper Cohen, and Jasper did not oblige. She felt alive whenever her father smoked. She felt imperfect, as tarnished through and through as her lungs. She reached for and embraced the toxic things in life, relishing the idea of a woman no little girl would dream of being.