They lift me into the air and lay me on the moss. The scent of dirt fills my nose, my mouth, my bare body pressed into the young earth. The butchers gather around me again, kneeling, knives in hands.

“Don, why don’t you do the honors?”

I scour their faces, trying to determine which one is Don. My question is answered when the gray-bearded man near my knees pulls his knife from its sheath.

“My pleasure,” he says.

The rest of the butchers hold down my arms and legs. A butcher near my head places an arm over my forehead, forcing me into the earth.

“Please don’t do this,” I say. “I’ll do anything.”

“Now, just hold still, little lady,” Don says.

He raises his sharp knife into the air and brings it down to my abdomen, sinking the metal into my skin. Another butcher puts his hand over my mouth to bury my scream.

I smell something wilder than my blood on his fingers. Cold air enters the mouth of the wound, and I shake violently.

“Now, just hold her down,” Don says, and their arms get tighter on me, stronger. The pain subsides a bit and I go slack against the earth, each breath a shock.

“So, let’s get on in here,” Don says. “Time to see what we’re working with.”

One butcher reaches down and holds the mouth of my wound open. Another butcher slides a hand into the slit. A new sensation begins: I can feel the pressure of his hand, the pain tearing through me, the cold air on my organs.

“Stop it,” I moan.

“Well, her intestines are in good shape,” he says, giving a squeeze that makes me scream. “Don, you want to check out her liver?”

Don slides his hand into me and up, tearing a new pathway through my body. I feel a pinch on my liver and groan.

“Good liver on this one, good to go there,” he says.

More hands enter the wound: They explore me like a strange new terrain, their fingers greedy. Each new motion sends another shot of pain through my body. I tremble against the moss, color drained from my skin.

“Well, that’s enough,” announces one butcher after they’re all bloodied to the wrists.

“You’ve got some nice organs,” says Don. “You’ll be fine. You pass inspection.”

The bells ring again, and the butchers begin their parade, this time away from me, my viscera on their boot bottoms as they retreat into the horizon.

I’m still on the moss, bloodless, waiting for the earth to swallow me.

MY MOTHER IS THE WOUND-TENDER. SHE has become softer since I’ve moved away, nicer when she’s close to me, when she helps me heal.

“Time to clean the gashes,” she singsongs.