She’d spent the morning making bat shaped cookies and breaking off the heads. Little heads with little red Santa hats on them. There was a growing pile of the things on one side of her kitchen counter, waiting, while the decapitated bats got arranged into tins that would be sent off to all her pals in Arkham and Gotham City and—right, right, Barry and his babies back in Brooklyn! None for Mommy or Daddy, though. No, they had been more naughty than nice this year. Hadn’t even sent her a birthday card!

Harley sealed the lid on the last of the containers and wiped her hands on her legs.

Ever since Mr. J dumped her on her butt, she’d been sitting around this apartment in the bad part of town with all the people who only had a few of their own teeth and the shady men who were always asking her if she wanted to buy a watch, nice shiny pocket watches that looked so out of place in their coats. She had five of them, sitting in a row on the back of her toilet next to the magazines with the articles about how to get over the guy that broke your heart into lotsa pieces.

She had the thought that, maybe, if she ever got her puddin’ back—he might like one of the watches. It could be his new thing! The thing that made people recognize him! Except he already had the green hair and the white skin. Thinking about it made her heart feel like it might fall out of his butt.

So she needed to get out of here—shove the tins in brown boxes and hastily scrawl out addresses on the outsides. Then pushing her arms through the sleeves of her winter coat and her feet into her winter boots and slipping down the banister and out the front door of her building. She threw the packages into the first mailbox she saw, forgetting that the cookies might not be so good when they finally got to where they were going. It was better than forking over the money she didn’t have.