“But I tho—”

“I just wanted to see it for myself,” he says.

I start to pull my dress down.

“Leave it,” he grunts.

He stands up and spits on the ground next to me.

“Fucking freak,” he mutters.

My mouth burns where he kissed me. I watch his back recede into the distance.

I stay that way for hours, until the sun sets, until it is dark, until it is too cold to stay how he left me. I stand up, let my dress fall down, walk home slow.

THE QUARRY MAKES ME STRONGER. THE fat falls from my body, the knot gets smaller. I can see new muscles in my legs and arms. I work fast as my brother, become the slick machine. Meat smears on me like blood on a warrior.

At night, my mother runs her finger over my cheekbones.

“Well, would you look at this,” she says. “Sharp as a knife by now.”

Little by little, the lemons fall away. The blood turns black beneath my fingernails, which no longer sting. I stand tall when I haul the meat, just like my father, just like my brother.

ONE DAY, I COME HOME FROM THE MEAT Quarry to find my mother alone in her bedroom, surrounded by lemons. There are lemons on the bed, lemons on the chair, lemons on the nightstand.

“Just letting them ripen,” she says.

A wince crosses her face and she doubles over in the afternoon light.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

“My knot, it’s been hurting,” she says. “Just something that comes with age.”

I move closer to her and put a hand on her shoulder. She lets out another strange laugh, her white teeth radiating, pain warping her face again.

EACH NEW MOON, I BLEED BETWEEN THE legs like an animal. I am tethered to the sky. I bow my head to the cycle, dip my fingers into the red mess between my legs.

JARRED DOESN’T SPEAK TO ME NOW. SOME days, I want his body on me more than others. Some days, I want his body on mine so badly I could scream into the sky. But we never say a word. I remember his spit in the dirt, a clear gem on the ground that sank into the soil, disappeared.

THE SUN GETS BRIGHTER, THE SUMMER days hotter and longer. I work the quarry, dig in the field for strange rocks, knife tops, bones.

In my palm, I hold the bleached summer bones of a small bird. When I shift my fingers, the bones touch, make a soft hollow sound. I keep the bones near me after that, like a totem. They stay on my nightstand where I can touch them when the bad feelings come down.

ONE DAY, I FIND THE CARCASS OF A DEER. I stare down into its open dead eye, which reflects the world around us in a glistening blue.