“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.”

IN HIS OFFICE, I SIT ON THE PADDED table in a paper gown white as frosting, shivering.

The door opens.

“Well, hello there. You must be Cassie,” the handsome doctor says. He has brown hair, brown flashing eyes, thick lips, a jaw like the men in the magazines.

I nod.

“Mind if I take a look?”

He slides the gown above the knot. He stares deeply into the caverns, a wonder in his eyes.

“May I touch it?” he asks.

I nod.

The doctor runs his cold fingers over my body.

“Just going to do a few more things here,” he says.

He pulls out a measuring tape and measures my knot. He pulls out a flashlight and shines it into the darkest parts of my knot. He uses a small rubber mallet to tap certain sections, testing for reflex.

“Well, we unfortunately have not made enough strides in research to handle this,” he says. “There are, however, a few things we can do for now that will make life easier.”

“You mean you can’t just fix me?”

“We just aren’t there yet.”

“What can you do for us now?” my mother asks.

“Well, there are some injections that will help loosen the knot and make it easier to operate on later,” he says.