You think you own the doll. You paid for him. Put him on a shelf. You call it décor, irony, a joke you can explain if someone asks. You say it’s just a doll the same way people say I’m fine when they’re not. You think ownership is about daylight, receipts, control. You think because he doesn’t move when you’re watching, he isn’t moving at all. But at night the doll owns you. He squats in the back of your head while you brush your teeth. He rides shotgun in your thoughts at red lights. He presses