“I know,” I say, my head down.

“Then, what’s the problem, punkinhead?” She lifts the hard crust to her mouth and sucks it. Arn’s Jeep rumbles to life in the driveway.

I should mutter a response and hightail it to my room, but raw emotion crackles inside me like a storm about to break. The words tumble out before I can stop them. “I’m a prisoner here. This isn’t a life. Nothing ever happens to me.”

Auntie doesn’t look at me. She sets the crust on the table and lays both gnarled hands on the dented tabletop. Her gnarled fingers curl into the surface until they look like talons. Her voice rolls out of her throat.

“You don’t know because you’ve never had it happen to you.”

“Auntie, I—”

She holds up a hand to stop me. Her eyes are burning embers.

“You don’t know because no man has laid hands on ya. But I know.” She thumps a finger to her chest. “Your mama knows.”

I have made a mistake. I want to leave.

She rolls the sleeve back on her arm. I know what I’ll see, though I’m afraid to look. “Look at it,” she says, brandish her forearm.

I squeeze my eyes shut, then I look.

The brand is there, seared into the skin on her forearm. The dark, puckered shape of a cross with a round head, the ankh, a symbol of fertility. The Breeder’s symbol. My mama has the same brand. I do not.

“After all we risked. After all we sacrificed—”

“Auntie, I’m sor—”

She holds up a hand. Her pupils have dilated to dark vacant holes. When she speaks, her voice comes from somewhere far off. “When the Breeders come for ya, there ain’t no escape. They strap ya to a bed, and all ya hear is the thud of your heart and the cries of your friends as they wheel ya down to hell. Then the doctors come. You squeeze your eyes shut and pray you can forget. But you never do.”

I drop my eyes and shake my head, more tears collecting at the crease of my eyes. I don’t want to hear it and yet, a sick, curious part of me wants her to keep going. They never speak of the Breeders, as if it might call them down on us.

“Bell.” It’s my mama behind me in the doorway.

Auntie’s eyes flick up to her, and the anger drops from her face. She picks up the crust of bread again. “Don’t let me hear you complain again.” Her gums make a wet sucking sound as she turns from me.

I scrape out of the chair, past my mama, and run to my room. I choke on the sob that’s climbing up. I have to be alone.

When I burst through my bedroom door, Ethan sits cross-legged on the bed with a tattered comic book on his lap. His black hair hangs into his eyes. His bony elbows rest on his bony knees. I hate how skinny he is. The most recent growth spurt hasn’t helped. Now he’s two inches taller but no thicker. I’ve forgotten he was in here. There’s no way I can cry in front of Ethan. I turn to go.