The rabbit was in shock. Petrified, it stared at me, and I stared back. Its nose twitched and I shrieked.

My grandfather snatched the rabbit by the ears, peering into its face for a moment. Then he dug in his pocket, pulling his knife from its sheath.

“Grandfather, don’t.”

“This is how the world works, Grace.” He lowered his knife and cut the rabbit’s throat. Blood poured out, the snow reddening and melting in a lopsided circle at my grandfather’s feet. As the bleeding slowed, it beaded on the rabbit’s fur before slowly trickling onto the ground, drop by drop. “Kill or be killed.”

When we returned home, my grandfather presented his kill to my mother. She dissected the rabbit on the kitchen counter. I remember the blood, the bits of pink flesh, and the chunks of fur.

Mother boiled its parts in a stockpot on the stove, which caused the entire house to smell of death. She filled jars with liquid and placed the remains inside, like some sick science experiment. The bottles sat on the shelf in our kitchen for weeks. Every time I saw them, I visualized the rabbit’s shiny black eyes, remembering the way it had looked at me.

It was the exact look Jack gave me that day.

Chapter 46

Dear Sunshine,

I’ve been counting silver trays. The first, when I was a baby; the last, that day in the hospital when you never showed up. Me, lying on that table. So many in between.

They have been present my entire life. Sanitary and sterile, lined with needles and knives, tools to poke and prod. Dangerous objects that are supposed to somehow heal you.

They say I’ve been saved one too many times.

How many silver trays have you seen?

Love,
G

Chapter 47

My great-grandmother had the gift of second sight. She was the seventh daughter of a seventh daughter. On the island, the seventh daughter of a seventh daughter was known to possess certain magical abilities. She was a hundred and one years old, and lived alone in an entirely beige two-bedroom apartment. My great-grandfather had died the year before I was born. I knew two things about him: he rarely smiled, and he had a prosthetic leg.

I went to visit my great-grandmother one afternoon when Jack was at his studio. I removed my shoes as I entered the apartment, feeling the plush carpet on my bare toes. The television’s volume was cranked and the thermostat was set to cremate.

My great-grandmother was sitting in her rocking chair facing the television, a small pile of candy bars on the table beside her. I kissed her on the cheek and sat opposite her on the couch. “How are you?”

The wrinkles in her face were like craters, her hair thinned to the point of transparency. She was so little, she couldn’t have weighed more than ninety pounds. Pointing the remote at the television, she clicked the button over and over to minimize the volume. “I’m going to die in four days.”