We follow the small set of silver tracks deeper into the still-dark quarry and take a left toward the new deposit my brother found. The walkways get smaller and smaller around our bodies, the walls bursting with flesh.

We reach the smallest part of the quarry, a place we have to kneel to enter. An empty silver cart waits nearby on the tracks.

The meat around us is the perfect color for harvest. The walls are so swollen they are almost touching, as if we are kneeling in the corridors of a giant heart.

“Watch us first, then we’ll let you try,” my father calls.

My father and brother bring their hands to the walls and begin to tug out large wet chunks.

“The bigger the chunks, the more money we can get for them raw,” my father explains. “So, you can’t be scared to go deep.”

My brother does just what he says: He reaches elbow deep into the wall and pulls, removing a boulder-sized chunk of meat from the quarry. He lugs it over to the cart, stumbling a bit from the weight of it.

“See there? That’s a big haul.”

“There’s a reason they say I’m the best.”

“You’re up, Cassie,” my father says.

The wall of meat shimmers beneath the light on my helmet. I pull my arms back and sink them deep into the red wetness of the flesh. The thick scent of blood rises up, fills my mouth and my nostrils until I gag.

“Now, keep strong,” my father whispers. “Grip what you can and pull.”

I grip the meat strong and pull back with my whole weight, knot and all. The meat sucks at my arms, but I pull harder. Finally, it comes loose, a bigger chunk than what my brother pulled.

My father lets out a yelp.

“Well would you look at that! A natural!”

I keep going, digging my arms into the wall, hearing that familiar wet suck sound, pulling hard. Over and over again, I fill the carts alongside my father and my brother.

By the end of the day, the wall of the quarry is dug out good. Blood coats my skin and my hair and my face and my clothes. We ride home like soldiers from a red war, exhilarated, exhausted, muscles screaming.

“What a fine haul,” my father says. “Fine haul.”

IT IS MY BIRTHDAY. MY RIBS HAVE BEGUN to show above the knot.

All morning, I imagine: Frosting, butter, perfectly sculpted sugar flowers.

In the kitchen, my family rings the table. There is a small pile of gifts, wrapped in silver.

“HAPPY BIRTHDAY!” everyone sings.

For a moment, briefly, joy.

I take a seat and open the gifts: New dress, new pearls, a book, a journal.

“Now,” my mother says. “It is time for your treat.”

My body is ready. I will gorge on it, get wild on sugar, explode into a pile of young confetti.