I can picture it: Me slamming her body to the ground, then doing something deadly. I wash my soup bowl in the silver sink. I do not say goodbye to Brenda.

IN THE REARVIEW MIRROR OF THE moving truck, the city stays static. I half-expect the skyscrapers to collapse or explode. But the knives stay upright as always, glint once more in the sun, the city grinding on.

I UNPACK MY LIFE INTO NEW arrangements.

I feel sure, during moments of unpacking, that I have moved to this town to die. I have no work to do here, only my savings of gold coins to chip away at.

AT NIGHT, THE QUIET OF THE COUNTRY roars, the sound loud and dark as a void. I can hear my organs grinding against each other beneath my blanket. I can hear my ovaries begin their monthly symphony.

MY DAYS PASS ALONE. I DON’T SEE anyone. I keep my body inside the cabin. I don’t brush my teeth. I sleep like a dead woman. In my dreams, I am still knotted. In my dreams, I am knotted and I am digging holes in an endless field. The dirt rises up around me like dirty palaces.

FINALLY, I NEED FOOD. I WALK TO THE grocery store. The sun beats down on the dust, which kicks up around my footsteps. The light inside the grocery store is not fluorescent but a warm yellow.

I fill a small basket with red meat, eggs, spinach, lemons. The cashier has her hair pulled back, no makeup.

“New here?” she asks, as if newness is a disease.

There’s a sharp intake of breath behind me, and I turn around.

The man in line brightens into view: He is tall, bald but with a thick dark beard, dark flashing eyes. He wears a blue button-down shirt and dark jeans.

THE STORE SEEMS TO RATTLE AROUND us. Our eyes finally meet. I have the sudden urge to place my hand on the side of his face, tenderness surging in my chest.

“Yes, new,” I say to her while staring at him.

“You’ve got a lot to learn about it here...” she rattles on, but I can now feel the axis of gravity. I can sense the planets rotating in their orbits. Now that I have seen him, I can see the pyramids, all the intense deep secrets of our distant lands and all of the world’s history.

I turn and leave.

I HUNCH OVER THE SMALL SILVER GUT OF the sink. I cut the lemons down the center one by one, arms shivering against the knife. Then, I run the yellow halves over the walls until they glisten at a higher voltage, until the house radiates the smell, until it smells as if my mother is beside me.

HOW’S THE COUNTRY TREATING YOU?” comes my father’s voice over the line.