Chapter 1

Monday, July 16, 2018

Flagstone, Nevada

“What the heck am I doing?” The grimace on Lindsay Anastacio’s face belied her youthfulness as she gazed at the eclectic, Spanish-style house. Her fingers twisted and clawed at each other, a silent argument between her yearning for change and the terror of courting eternal damnation. The house loomed like a beacon of impropriety, its unspoken promises overpowering the maelstrom of conservative values and explicit desires waging war within her. This is it. My chance at independence. Clenching her fists, Lindsay acknowledged the monumental nature of her decision and its dire consequences. This house symbolized more than a change of address. It was her salvation, a golden ticket to a new life – even if it meant selling her soul to attain it.

Matching the online images she’d studied for months, the dwelling sat at the end of a cul-de-sac, symbolizing Lindsay’s isolation and the final destination in her journey of self-discovery. Beyond its well-kept boundary, a stunning vista unfolded: orange-banded canyons, towering limestone peaks, and resplendent wildflowers. Wrapped in weathered stucco and crowned with rustic tiles, the house looked normal against the backdrop of the Nevada desert.

Yet she realized this house was anything but normal. Lindsay’s straitlaced, religious parents had painted establishments like this as breeding grounds for degeneracy, capable of corroding a person and potentially leading to ruin – or worse, death.

Don’t do this. Her inner voice continued to protest. Save yourself.

Run!

But Lindsay ignored it.

Again.

“Welp, I made it. Can’t believe I’m actually standing here. Crazy, right?” She spoke to her reflection, applying a fresh sheen of flamingo pink lip gloss. “Time to woman up, buttercup. No turning back now.”

Gotta look like a total smoke-show. My future hinges on what happens today. As the wind roared, whipping up swirls of dust and ash, her mind felt just as chaotic. If Mom and Dad ever find out that I’m here, they’ll disown me.

A furrow deepened on her brow. I’m gonna do this. She gave her too-short shorts a self-conscious tug and tipped her chin high with false bravado. It’s time to be a big girl and move on to the next phase of my life. Remember, fear is for the weak.

A muscle flickered in Lindsay’s cheek as she slung her backpack over her shoulder and trudged across a path of marble steppingstones toward the entrance. Come on, chicka, you can do this. One foot in front of the other. She rubbed her forearms to combat a sudden chill. Breathe. You’ve come this far. It’s just a job interview.

Besides, the eighteen-year-old had burned her bridges. After splurging on an Uber ride to get here, her pockets were as empty as her list of alternatives.

Lindsay fell in love with Las Vegas after a whirlwind sightseeing tour and staying at a hotel there overnight. An oasis of lights, sounds, and uncaged debauchery in the heart of the Mojave Desert, Sin City blurred the line between theme park and urban metropolis. It awed as much as it overwhelmed, and that was part of the appeal.

Vegas, known for its luxurious rental properties, the clink and ring of slot machines, dazzling shows, and a cornucopia of fine dining, had more than earned its moniker as “The Entertainment Capital of the World.” Activity raged everywhere, and the endless parade of tourists from all walks of life boggled Lindsay’s naïve, impressionable mind. And the Las Vegas Strip resembled a flamboyant, boisterous, and eccentric adult fantasyland with limitless possibilities where reality, with its pitfalls, ceased to exist.

Hmm, this sure ain’t Vegas.

Located 175 miles upstate, the town of Flagstone was born from the dust and dreams of the Union Pacific Railroad’s expansion across the American Plains in the 1860s. When the tracks met the settlement in 1872, its tents, huts, and businesses multiplied at an exponential rate, earning Flagstone an anything-goes reputation. Saloon girls, prospectors, gamblers, and lawless streets abounded. The subsequent mining frenzy led the newly wealthy to build mansions, opera houses, schools, hotels, and everything in between.

Today, Flagstone honors its past with restored wooden sidewalks and historical buildings. Twisted debris litters Grasberg, an abandoned gold mine. The Flagstone Historical Museum features numerous artifacts, including one of the original train engines used to haul ore from the mine. Outdoor enthusiasts enjoy the Calafell Canyon National Wildlife Refuge, a sanctuary for plants and animals, while history buffs may explore the town’s most notable attraction, Crown Hill Cemetery. The old graveyard features scores of nefarious figures from a time when the West was still wild. Some locals swear they hear spirits stirring nightly, their tales of violence and vice forever woven into Flagstone’s fabric.

The intense Nevada sun cooked the air at 105 degrees Fahrenheit, but Lindsay’s casual stride showed she was accustomed to the searing temperatures. After eighteen years in Citronelle, a speck on the map in California’s southeastern desert, this heat was as familiar as her own skin. Just three weeks ago, she’d stood under that same merciless sun, sweat pooling beneath her graduation gown, as she received her high school diploma.

Yesterday, Lindsay’s fingers traced the cold window of a charter bus as Palm Springs faded into the pre-dawn darkness. The rumble of the engine couldn’t drown out her father’s parting words: “You’re crazy, Lindsay. You’re out of your mind to go off alone at your age.” She closed her eyes, seeing her mother’s tearful face, and her sisters’ confused stares. Her phone buzzed – another frantic text. Lindsay switched it off, watching the landscape give way to desert. Vegas loomed ahead, a neon promise of freedom.

She had a plan. It was her secret, her treasure, guarded so closely she hadn’t breathed a word of it to anyone – not even Evie Bancroft, who’d been her best friend since they were in kindergarten.

Lindsay’s calendar still hung on her bedroom wall, each day X’d out in red, counting down to her departure from Citronelle. The final square commanded attention, circled repeatedly in thick marker. Fragments of distant worlds surrounded it – urban jungles and pristine beaches clipped from magazines. At night, her fingers traced glossy photos as she drifted off, the rustle of travel guide pages a lullaby of escape.

Citronelle wasn’t home; it was a black hole, sucking the life and dreams out of everyone who stayed too long. Landlocked by endless wastelands, sand dunes, and desiccated lake beds, the town was more than isolated – it was a tomb for ambition. The thought of becoming a carbon copy of her mother, worn down by small-town life and missed opportunities, made Lindsay’s skin crawl.

Since she was old enough to dream, Lindsay had clung to the belief that something better awaited her. What it was or where she’d find it remained a mystery, but she knew with bone-deep certainty that it wouldn’t come knocking in Citronelle. No ... Jerkwater, USA. And unless she found the guts to go searching, that elusive ‘something better’ would remain forever out of reach.

College felt like an impossible dream. With her two older sisters already at Pepperdine and Cal State Berkeley, Lindsay knew the score. Mom and Dad can barely afford their tuition. There’s no way they could cover mine too. The harsh reality stung, but it wasn’t like she’d set herself up for success anyway.

High school had slipped by in a haze of disinterest and missed opportunities. Now, facing her future, Lindsay’s mediocre GPA and unimpressive SAT scores mocked her. Getting into a decent university seemed as likely as winning the lottery.

So what was left? Lindsay’s stomach churned at the thought. Dipping and frying corn dogs for minimum wage at the fairgrounds, her personal summer nightmare? Ugh, corn dogs. The memory of that greasy, cockroach-infested trailer made her want to vomit.

It was the lone gig she could find in town, highlighting everything wrong with Citronelle. Each day spent in deep-fried purgatory offered yet another reason to leave.

So, in the fall of 2017, an idea took root and refused to let go. Initially, Lindsay found the notion downright repulsive, but soon the perversity of it intrigued her like nothing ever had.

Why wouldn’t it? It involved sex.

Lots of sex.

And having sex was this girl’s favorite activity.

Desperate to rebel, Lindsay spent weeks, even months, researching an unlikely path to independence: Nevada’s brothels. She pored over multiple online resources, delving into their sordid history and the harsh realities of the profession. Eventually, she couldn’t shake the assumption that working at a brothel – a whorehouse, to be blunt – was the quickest route out of town.

Under the cover of anonymity, Lindsay crafted digital alter egos on Twitter and Instagram. She curated these personas with meticulous care, following every “working girl” she could find. When the bolder ones responded, Lindsay seized the opportunity, spinning a tale of a twenty-four-year-old model aspiring to join their ranks. She peppered them with questions, every direct message, every random tweet becoming a piece of the puzzle she was desperately trying to solve. In the glow of her laptop, night after night, Lindsay gathered the fragments of her potential future, storing away tidbits of information like a squirrel preparing for winter.

Though fraught with controversy, brothels are legal in Nevada counties with populations under 400,000 residents. This means they are illegal in Clark County (Las Vegas) and Washoe County (Reno). Carson City, an independent city, outlaws them as well. In counties with smaller populations, the decision to permit brothels is up to local officials. Only a few municipalities in seven of Nevada’s seventeen counties allow the legal buying or selling of sex, but only within regulated brothels.

Proponents argue that these houses of prostitution offer the safest possible sexual encounters, as they operate under strict regulations imposed by both local counties and the Nevada State Legislature. Ordinances require all sex workers to undergo regular, rigorous medical testing. A positive result means immediate suspension until medical clearance. Non-compliance carries severe penalties: potential jail time for the worker and possible license revocation and permanent closure for the brothel itself.

After months of social media communication with employees and patrons, Lindsay applied online at Happy Ending Ranch in Flagstone. Aesthetically, Flagstone wasn’t much different from Citronelle – a sleepy desert town with century-old buildings, cottages, and neglected homes lining the streets. The nearest town was seventeen miles away and housed a mere 160 residents. It’s like I never left home. Mountains hugged the horizon, and the changing seasons brought a rotation of pursuits: rifles echoing in autumn forests, fly rods whipping over spring-fed streams.

Despite the cruel familiarity, Lindsay chose Flagstone and this specific brothel because she hadn’t read a single negative review of it. Complaints infested online forums regarding other houses, but customers extolled the girls at Happy Ending Ranch and its mellow staff. The owner’s commitment to his clientele was often lauded, and based on his photographs, Lindsay considered him quite handsome too. Damn, Mr. McCarron is fine as hell. Overall, customers spoke far more glowingly of the house’s atmosphere than any other in the state.

In brief, Happy Ending Ranch seemed the opportune place for Lindsay’s initial foray into the industry. It offered a chance to gain valuable experience as an employee and, in theory, to work her way up to the larger, more renowned houses where the real money was. Nabbing a job at Chastity’s Ranch would be next-level. I’d be straight-up vibin’ if I could make that happen someday.

A wrinkle appeared between Lindsay’s eyes as they locked onto the scratched and dented metal placard affixed to the entrance.

NOTICE: Possession of cell phones, pagers, PDAs, laptops, recording devices, and two-way radios is strictly forbidden on this property and will result in confiscation.

She assumed the sign’s intent was to protect anonymity and safety, thinking such rules applied to the public, not the working girls. Surely, management wouldn’t forbid their employees from using cell phones, right? That’d be whack. But to be safe, she stashed her phone into her backpack’s hidden compartment, patting it secure. Ain’t no one touching my phone.

For a long moment, Lindsay stood motionless on the weather-beaten porch, her feet rooted to the rough planks as if grown into the wood. The ancient boards creaked beneath her weight, their protests lost to the pulse of blood rushing through her ears. She inspected the door, once regal mahogany now cracked and faded from decades under the relentless desert sun. Its tarnished brass knocker leered at her, daring her to grasp it, to seal her fate.

Maybe I have it all wrong. Are Mom and Dad right? Seriously, do I understand what I’m doing? Thoughts swirled, rushed and frantic. Will this turn out to be the biggest mistake of my life? Her mouth twisted to one side.

You’re insane, but welcome to the rest of your life, girlfriend. This is what you wanted, right? Welcome to your new reality as a professional dick wrangler. She gripped the hair at the base of her skull as her pulse staggered. They can print that on your tombstone: Lindsay Michelle Anastacio, December 4, 1999, to ... whenever. She was a prostitute – and she liked it. A cocksucker du jour. A flicker of a smile crossed her lips. How’s that for a legacy?

Lindsay’s cheeks ballooned as she expelled a breath, her gaze sweeping over the peaceful setting one more time. Her mother vehemently opposed the idea of prostitution, legal or otherwise. Mrs. Anastacio labeled brothels as “houses of ill repute” and the women working at them as “unholy sinners.” Mom is such a Karen. She watched daytime talk shows and insisted sex workers were a moral stain on society, the lowest form of scum.

If she ever finds out I’m here, it’ll be an epic catastrophe. The vibrant color drained from Lindsay’s cheek, leaving behind a pallor that spoke volumes. Mom would totally spaz out and require therapy for, like, the rest of her life. She shuffled on her insoles, unable to contain her growing unease. Dad would suffer a stroke and call the National Guard. No, no, he’d do one better. He’d go hardcore and get Seal Team Six to extract my ass from the premises, like, yesterday.

A coyote’s haunting cry pierced the thick gravid air, sending a shiver down Lindsay’s spine. She stood before the door, her hand hovering inches from the tarnished brass knocker. Its metal gleamed in the daylight, a silent arbiter guarding the threshold of a new reality.

Lindsay’s fingers trembled as they closed around the knocker. The brass burned against her skin, as if testing her resolve. She inhaled sharply, the acrid taste of dust and anticipation coating her tongue.

In that moment, everything crystallized. Her fears, her desperate hunger for freedom, and the intoxicating thrill of defiance condensed into a singular, irresistible force. With a surge of adrenaline, Lindsay brought the knocker down.

The sound reverberated through the old house, echoing like a funeral bell for her old life.

And then ... nothing.

Seconds stretched into minutes, the silence as oppressive as the heat. Lindsay shifted uneasily, doubt creeping in like a shadow. What’s going on? Her mind raced, flashing back research mentioning these “cathouses” often springing to life only after nightfall. Still, it was past opening time. Surely someone was awake?

She knocked again, harder this time. The hollow sound mocked her, unanswered. A frustrated whine escaped her lips. Come on, what’s the holdup?

Lindsay took a step back, eyes roving. Peeling paint and shuttered windows stared back, indifferent to her presence. Confusion spread, icy fingers curling around her heart.

No. She couldn’t turn back now. This was her chance – my only chance – to break free from the stifling confines of Citronelle. She’d agonized over this for months, weighed every pro and con. This wasn’t some impulsive act of rebellion; it was a calculated risk for a shot at independence.

Squaring her shoulders, Lindsay approached the door once more. This time, she didn’t knock. Instead, she pressed her palm flat against the wood, as if she could will it to open through sheer determination.

“I know you’re in there,” she whispered. “I’m ready to work. Let me in.”

As if in response, a faint sound came from within – footsteps, growing louder. Lindsay’s heart leapt into her throat. This was it. Whatever – whoever – waited on the other side would change her life forever. For better or worse, the Lindsay who would one day walk away from this porch for good would not be the same girl who arrived.

The rust-stained knob wheeled around, and the door squeaked, groaned, and scraped open, and a much older man materialized sporting a warm smile. “Hi, how’s it going? Welcome to Happy Ending Ranch.”

Shadows played across the man’s face, emphasizing the sharp planes of his cheekbones and the strong line of his jaw. Dark clothing contrasted with sun-kissed skin, stretched taut over a tall, sinewy frame. Lindsay found herself drawn to his eyes – deep wells of green that seemed to hold secrets of distant woodlands.

“Hi. I’m great, thank you. How are you?”

“Good, good. It’s a lovely morning, isn’t it?”

She tugged on her denim shorts, unable to peel her eyes away from this silver fox. “Yes, it’s lovely, all right.” Lindsay often daydreamed of being with an older, experienced man who would control her in the bedroom – where she’d be defenseless, a submissive plaything at her lover’s mercy.

She craned her neck, her blue eyes shining, and nibbled on a finger. That face. I know I’ve seen your picture before, sir. Who are you? What is your name? She racked her brain for an answer but soon found her thoughts derailed by another impulse altogether: dropping to her knees and taking his cock into her mouth. Lindsay yearned to taste this sexy stranger, to swallow his sperm, and demonstrate what a productive, hard-working employee she could be.

She yanked her hand away and squirmed in place as a twinge flared between her thighs. Through the thin fabric of her tank top, the twin peaks of her nipples stiffened into view. Lindsay’s libido, already the stuff of legend at Citronelle High School, was raging out of control. X-rated thoughts on the bus ride led to and peaked during an overnight masturbation session at the hotel. After all her careful planning, Lindsay was finally at the brothel.

And she knew what happened at these houses of ill repute.

“May I see an ID, please? Just need to verify your age.”

“Uhh, sure. Hold on.” Lindsay’s hands fumbled through the chaos of her backpack, her face scrunching as she finally pulled out her California driver’s license. My ID, huh? What a buzzkill.

“Thanks. It’s just a formality.”

Realization swept over her like a sudden gust of wind—she had seen this man in the online videos and photos related to Happy Ending Ranch. His name slipped her mind, but she was sure he held a high-ranking role. He wasn’t the owner; she would recognize Mr. McCarron’s face without hesitation. Perhaps he was the head of security? Or maybe the lead bartender?

Will I meet the owner today? Lindsay considered herself lucky she may work with not one, but two impeccable older men. I’d let both of them smash me at the same time.

“Oh, Lindsay. Lindsay Anastacio.” The knowledge brought a grin to his lips. “We’ve been expecting you. I’m Jim Mayer, the house manager.” He stepped aside and extended an arm. “Come on in. So nice meeting you.”

“It’s nice to meet you, too, Mr. Mayer.” House manager, huh? You must be second on the totem pole. One side of Lindsay’s mouth curled up as she slipped by and navigated into the foyer. The structure gave the impression of a typical family home on the outside, yet inside, Lindsay surveyed the wet bar, wraparound mirrors, and the stripper pole with a rigid posture and wide-eyed countenance.

This den of iniquity – sports memorabilia, poster prints of rock-and-roll legends and adult film stars, peeling paint, bright neon signage, and padlocked doors leading God-knows-where – was Flagstone’s gateway to glamorous women and salacious good times.

This crib is lit.

The lobby featured two booths and four bistro tables with worn, vinyl-backed chairs, with the bar itself as the focal point. Hardcore pornography played on two flat-panel TVs, and a sprawling glass showcase displayed exotic toys for purchase. OhmiGod. Is that a strap-on dildo? Look at the size of it. A jukebox with records, touchscreen games, mismatched glassware, a fake mounted fish, and a pool table in dire, yet technically playable disrepair, added charm and character. They really committed to the theme of ‘unapologetic dive’ with this décor, didn’t they? Raggedy curtains hung in front of open doorways on either side of the counter. The air reeked of nicotine, booze, and sex. Rough, rugged, super sketch – yet I can’t help but feel oddly at home here. Several placards indicated condoms were “mandatory,” yet Lindsay inclined her head and smirked at a specific sign: Get your woody serviced here.

“You took a bus from Palm Springs to Vegas, yes?” Jim ran Lindsay’s driver’s license through an electronic scanner and handed it back. “Did you have a pleasant trip?” His gaze anchored into her. “Run into any problems?”

Warm and inviting, Jim spoke from the chest, not the head, conveying richness, wisdom, and stability. After years of dealing with boys her own age, it provided a welcome change of pace. At last ... I’m around people with the same maturity level as me.

“Nah, the trip was Gucci.” Lindsay sensed Mr. Mayer was sizing her up. Back home, she was the two-time reigning Homecoming Queen, an accomplishment less impressive considering her graduating class comprised a mere sixteen students. Her reflection in a nearby mirror caught her eye, curves she knew were enviable, offset by a face that was pretty rather than stunning. Yet she squared her shoulders, knowing her genuine warmth and easy charm had never failed to win people over.

“My only gripe is it took too long. Ten hours from Palm Springs to Las Vegas with a gazillion stops and breaks.” Is that a cigarette vending machine in the corner? Lindsay blinked and drew in a lungful of oxygen. The decades-old wafts of tobacco smoke would take some getting used to. Reminds me of Grandma’s before they dragged her off kicking and screaming to the nursing home. And what was the deal with this unholy music? Sounds hardcore ancient, like some eighties hair metal or something. “I have no clue why they found it necessary to pull over at every single rest stop.” She rolled her eyes. “It was so extra.”

Despite her comments, Lindsay thought the bus ride was a steal and would do it again. I like to complain. Dad says I’m such a whiny brat. A mere thirty-five dollars to uproot her life to a whole new world? Can’t beat that.

The Uber ride from Vegas was efficient and comfortable, and the driver offered great conversation, but it cost $221 and obliterated her budget.

“Can I offer you something to drink? Water, soda, Powerade? Compliments of the house, of course.”

Her eyes still taking inventory, she flashed a perfect row of teeth. “No, but thank you, Mr. Mayer. I appreciate the offer.” She noticed strings of Christmas lights providing soft illumination throughout the space. The muted lighting initially struck her as amateurish, but then she remembered something – a sex worker on Twitter had mentioned how low lighting helped conceal any physical imperfections from clients. Clever, I guess?

The subdued atmosphere also contributed to an air of discretion, another crucial aspect Lindsay had unearthed during her investigations. It was clear that in a place like this, privacy was paramount. Every element, from the lighting to the layout, seemed designed with this in mind.

“Please, call me Jim.”

She drew a deep breath, her breasts rising in her tank top. “Kk.” I wonder if this is one of those houses where management hooks up with their employees. Initially, Lindsay hoped that wasn’t the case; but now, she welcomed visions of Jim ripping her clothes off, hoisting her onto the bar, and devouring her like a Thanksgiving feast. Give me a test drive, Daddy. Gone was her logic, her overthinking and hesitation.

She caught herself staring at his hands. They were strong and masculine, and she imagined them gripping her ass as he thrust away from behind. Hmm, I bet you’re an animal in the bedroom. Her daydreams transitioned to what he might be packing between his legs. Can I see? I’d love for you to ... throat me.

“Your ID checks out, and we’ve already verified through our background check that you’re eighteen. You don’t look eighteen. You look younger, which is the best thing you have going for you, at least to start.” Lindsay bit her lip and a rosy blush dusted her cheeks as Jim continued to talk. Her mind was still racing, her blood pounding. “The big boss, Colt, is eager for some new, youthful energy. Have the right mindset – be receptive, coachable, hungry to evolve – and you’ll make a considerable amount of money here.”

Glancing down, she twirled a sneaker-clad foot upon the floor. “I hope so.”

“I need to inspect your backpack and make sure you didn’t sneak anything onto the property you shouldn’t have. A full search is mandatory.”

Lindsay’s face transformed, her head whipping up as her eyebrows vaulted into defiant peaks.

Jim added in a soft, reassuring voice, “All employees or turnouts – prospective employees, that is – have their belongings searched every time they enter the building. It’s a safety thing.” He reached forward and carefully took her bag without waiting for permission.

Oh, rip. What the fuck? An infusion of adrenaline rocked Lindsay as Jim emptied it out and sifted through her possessions. I have nothing to hide, but seriously? Such brazenness insulted her, a wave of nausea rising as the last vestiges of her privacy crumbled before her eyes.

But that’s how these places operate. You knew that coming in, didn’t you? It was time to face facts: as long as she was here, her liberties would be subject to the whims of management.

The epitome of professionalism, Jim inspected and placed her bras and panties into separate piles. Though she stared with clenched fists, Lindsay appreciated the respect shown. Calm down, don’t jeopardize your chance of getting hired. It’s just a simple search. Her sneakers squeaked on the hard floor, her fingers fidgeting. Stop tripping; he won’t find anything that could legit ruin you.

Jim did the same for her tops and bottoms, shoes, socks, hair and beauty supplies, purse, laptop, iPad, and paper notebooks, and gave her smartphone a quick courtesy glance. Evidently, it wouldn’t be confiscated after all. Thank God. I’d be a hot mess without my phone.

Jim offered no visible reaction to Lindsay’s long silver dildo and the Ben Wa balls she occasionally inserted into her vagina each morning. Weighted with smaller balls inside, they bounced with her every movement, keeping her perpetually aroused. Once, she wore them to school and experienced an orgasm between classes. Friends, oblivious, mistook her for someone ready to faint and called the nurse for assistance. Until today, that had been her craziest, naughtiest adventure. I love getting fucked with every single step I take.

“Your stuff checks out,” Jim said. “All clean.”

What? No full-body pat-down? Lindsay’s lower lip protruded.

“You want me to put everything back, or would you prefer to do it yourself?”

“I’ll do it.” Lindsay snatched the plastic baggie with the Ben Wa balls inside and clutched them like they were her most cherished possession. Uhhhhh. Her face flushed fifty shades of red as she realized how silly she must appear, treasuring such archaic, old-world sex toys. But I love my Ben Wa balls. With trembling hands, she refilled her bag and angled a subtle glance toward Jim.

There’s nothing like a bad boy disguised as a gentleman. Managing a brothel, selling sex, and fucking all the prostitutes in their downtime – he had to be a bad boy, right? And hell if that idea didn’t melt Lindsay’s panties into the twisting nether. I want his dick in me.

Jim meandered behind the counter and picked up the old-school, rotary telephone. “Colt? Yeah, hi. The turnout is here. Yeah, the girl from Palm Springs. Lindsay Anastacio. Early, yeah. Eighteen years old, just like her application says. Oh, you have us on surveillance? Good.”