Nóra ran up against the wall of the shed and kicked herself away: she rose into the air and got stuck at the peak of her jump, in between the earth and the heavens, like a feather carried on the wind. She slowly turned on her axis, cackling in a deep, metallic voice. Emese felt her body tear itself away from the ground, and in a second she was flying around the shed with Nóra, laughing away at the absurdity of it all.

The effect lasted for ten minutes, then both girls hit the ground softly. Emese’s head was buzzing and splitting, she felt a tormenting hunger in her stomach, but when she thought about the oily schnitzel, she felt nauseous. Nóra burped.

‘You shouldn’t drink it often,’ she said. ‘It’s easy to get hooked on it.’

They smoked another cigarette, then went back to the house.

Men traditionally greet each other with pálinka shots while women prepare the bait. The children wait in a separate room while the fresh snail oil cools on the windowsill.

The house was filled with relatives: three families arrived, along with two lifelong bachelors. The harvest was always a family business; they all received a share from the sales. The men toasted with pálinka fermented from peaches.

‘Make the beasts strong and fat!’ they yelled, downing the drinks with a ritual gesture. The women were threading the still-living snails onto hooks to make the lures. Andrea, although filled with respect for the farmers, couldn’t help but be repelled by the sight of the wriggling animals at the ends of the hooks. She wished them dead, even though the purpose of their existence was precisely what she was seeing now. To be half-living bait at the end of pointed metal. A dozen such lures were prepared, for that was how many pits had been dug in the ground outside. The pits were about two meters deep, two meters wide. They used an excavator for the digging; that was the only part of the process done with machines.

While the adults drank and prepared the bait, the children, seven of them altogether, sat in the main hall. Emese was also sent to sit with the children, though she was not counted as one of them. She was there as a guest, and the children of guests usually don’t participate in the proceedings and necessities of the harvest; their essence isn’t used. Local children were necessary parts of the process though, so now they were preparing themselves mentally for the role they would soon play.

She retreated to an armchair and watched the other children from there. The youngest must have been ten years old, the oldest was a pimpled boy who might even be legally allowed to buy cigarettes. He was staring somberly in front of him like someone willing himself unconscious. The youngest kid was shaking, his teeth chattering, sweaty hands crumpling his trousers. Feri was also sitting among them, trying to act cool, but his breathing was ragged from nervousness. Nóra sat right beside him, smiling victoriously. At this point Emese did not yet understand why.