◆In the Inca culture, the only “written” language was a system of knots tied into documents called quipus, or “talking knots,” which recorded numbers, and retold stories and historical events

◆Gorillas and select species of birds are known to tie knots

ONE SATURDAY MORNING, MY FATHER pulls me from bed before sunrise.

“Today is the day,” he says.

We take the tractor across the land, driving until we reach the entrance to the quarry. My father unlocks the black gate with his key.

“Isn’t it incredible?” my father asks, as we step inside, the quarry walls rising up around our heads.

I act awed.

“Yes,” I say. “It’s bigger than I ever imagined.”

My father grips my hand, and we walk deeper into the quarry, following the silver tracks until we come to a split in the path. He gestures to the left.

“Now, this here,” he says, “your brother discovered this.”

We veer left and the meat scent gets stronger than I remember it before, the red deeper, the rivers of fat thicker, whiter, brighter.

“This is quality,” he explains. “You see here how the fat spirals evenly through the flesh? That’s going to sell for more every damn time.”

We walk until we come to a dead end of meat, a place where the digging has stopped.

“We’ve got more to do here,” he says, gesturing to the last wall. “There’s enough here to keep us in money for years. Just have to harvest it. Then watch your mother spend it all.”

FOR WEEKS, SOPHIA AND I DO NOT SPEAK. Our eyes never meet.

ALONE, MY DAYS GET STRANGER.

My vision goes wild. The grass begins to breathe. Through the window at breakfast, the green blades heave, pulsing like a large body below the house.

“The land is alive,” I say.

“You’re acting weird again,” my father says, through the toast in his mouth.

I slide my morning rock into my mouth and suck.

◆The loneliest creature on earth is a whale who has been calling for a mate for two decades

◆There are roughly 60,000 miles of blood vessels in the human body

◆Like fingerprints, each person has a unique tongue print

◆It is impossible to commit suicide by holding your breath

I WAKE IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT, sweat pooling in the curves of my knot.

The empty walls of my stomach grind against each other. I make my way down to the kitchen.

I open the pantry cabinet. Inside, there is a perfect loaf of bread. The hunger makes me wild. I stuff the bread into my mouth, I gorge until it feels like choking.

“GET UP,” MY MOTHER SAYS. “WE’RE going to the doctor.”

Outside, the sun blares light down on us. A headache begins behind my eyes.

“This doctor is supposed to be very handsome,” she says.

“Do you think he can fix me?”

“We’ll see,” my mother says. “Maybe he fixes us both.”