THE SUN HITS OUR FACES THROUGH THE smashed barn wall. My mouth is a mound of sand, tongue dry, stuck to the backs of my furred teeth.

Sophia is beside me, snoring.

I let my elbow find her gut and sink it in.

“Get up, get up, get up,” I say.

The air gets a few degrees colder. A shadow falls over us: My mother.

“WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK NOW?” she screams. “What have you done!? LOOK AT WHAT YOU HAVE DONE!”

Sophia starts laughing.

“And you, what are you doing here?” she asks.

“Just having fun for once,” she says.

“FUN?” my mother screams, pulling the bottle from the hay. “You’re going home right fucking now, Sophia. And you?”

She turns to me.

“Get to your fucking room.”

I bound across the field and up the stairs, into my room, where I lock the door. I climb into my bed, head pounding, dizzy.

◆Late Stone Age jugs suggest that intentionally fermented drinks existed during the Neolithic period

◆Alcohol is a depressant which in low doses causes euphoria

◆In higher doses, alcohol causes stupor, unconsciousness, or death

I SPEND DAYS WITH THE LEMONS, RUBbing the walls. I am not allowed on the phone. The hours ache by.

A WEEK LATER, MY MOTHER IS STRANGELY happy. The fight has worn off of her. We are going shopping.

“Are you ready?” my mother calls, singsong.

I am rotten today, nastiness in my body. My knot feels thicker, more prominent. My mother does not notice. We drive to town.

“What a beautiful day!” she hums.

Mania is a trap. Trees whip past. I count the dead deer on the side of the road.

“What are you thinking about?” she asks.

The bloody ribs of the deer reach up out of their bodies to the sun.

“The ribs of the deer look like fingers,” I say.

“Could we try for just a minute not to be disgusting? We’re trying to have a nice day and get you a dress.”

“Yes,” I murmur. “Nice day.”

The store is rich and glowing. The lights are thin ribs electric above us. We walk over pristine linoleum floors, the racks of clothing around us pushing in.

“This would be nice!” she says. “How about this one? Oh, let’s try this.”

She fills her hands with lilac satin, yellow taffeta, a sickening green velvet.

“Won’t these be nice?” she asks.

“I don’t like those. I like black and red.”

“Well, we need to try new things, so we’re going to try new things,” she says.

In the changing room, the dresses hang behind me like limp bodies.

“Hurry up,” my mother calls.

I put on the yellow dress, too tight against my body, a cage. I look sallow, a tumor.

“I don’t want to show you this one,” I call.

“Stop fucking around,” she hisses. “Get out here right now.”