When I finished, I stitched her up with super glue—like we learned at camp. I put my tools in the dishwasher. I crushed pain pills and stuffed the powder past her swollen tongue. I poured the contents of the bag into the toilet—a little at a time—and flushed it all away. I filled sandwich bags with ice and draped them over her.

She slept until Wednesday, but the pain pills were running low, and she’d see red if we ran out.

It’s all about portions.

The internet said swelling is normal. But try telling that to a girl with bright fever eyes who just sees herself getting fatter.

I kissed her and told her she was beautiful.

There’s hardly an ounce of fat left on her body, and if she’s still not happy with it, well. She’s got a problem.

By Friday, she could almost get out of the bathtub. The purple faded to yellow and the swelling had gone down.

On Tuesday, she leaned against my shoulder while I slid the camp skirt over her narrow hips. We turned, so she could see in the mirror. She beamed and her eyes sparkled.

She let go of my neck and smoothed the crisp pleats over the angles of her hip bones. Her eyes watered at the pressure of her palms against the tender flesh.

She lifted her skirt. Scars mottled her legs—a shiny network of pink and ivory. They rippled, just like the cellulite.

She moaned against the gauze packed around her tongue and threw herself toward the doorway, hobbling to the bathroom.

I followed, chasing after her swaying skirt.

She rummaged in the first aid kit and pulled out the little Swiss army knife. Her eyes burned brighter than I had ever seen them as she carved away her scars.

Long strokes, curling strips—like we learned at camp—falling around her in a pile like rough pine bark. Till her flesh flowed slick with blood and I couldn’t tell where her wounds ended and her soft skin began.

She lay back in the tub, shivering. Her eyes dimmed as all the drugs, the fever, the hate bled out of her. The drain gargled like laughter as it swallowed the swirling vortex of her red.

I kissed her and told her she was beautiful—my small miracle.

I slipped the knife from her shaking fist and carved a thin line—skinniest line you’ve ever seen—across her creamy throat.

And I ordered her an extra large coffin, with rose gold ornaments.

Scavengers

SCAVENGERS

There are places in the world where the dead are not buried. They’re left for the elements, for the vultures and eagles. Beak by beak, the dead are cleaned away, their spirits carried to the heavens on scavenger’s wings or their bodies erased, conveniently. Perhaps both, but Mallow only needed the latter.