He works in the garden. Tearing out the old dead plants, making plans for raised beds, a cloche system to protect the vegetables in winter; he wants the entire square of earth transformed. He lets his father tell him what to do: weed, haul the dirt, unroll the mesh wire, hammer the nails. Turn the compost. He lays the seeds for broccoli, cauliflower, spinach, chard. Knowing that when they grow he will have to destroy them, in part or in whole, the dilemma of taking life something becoming vegan didn’t solve, that nothing can solve; in the scheme of existence, where does the plant fit? The mink? The trees? Xie? The body? Why does one thing have to take a place above the other, any others? He doesn’t know. Trying to feed himself, his father, in the least ugly way; it seems possible, at this moment, that he can figure out how. A slim string of calm from the bones to you, from you to this. Make something. So that when he comes it is beautiful. You’ve been going out at night, Erik says, dragging a bag of dirt to the fence. Not a question. Yeah. Where to? Just. Shrug. Woods. Doing what? Xie sinks a seed into the earth. Um. Walking. Walking? Yeah, just. Around. Is it safe? Erik asks. Why wouldn’t it be? I don’t know, something might be out there. Xie shakes his head. There’s nothing out there. Well, could you stay in tonight? I’ve got a job in town and I’ll be gone until dinner tomorrow. Xie nods, casual, despite the shiver that runs through him. Sure. They raise the last bed onto its trestle, Xie driving the final nail into the pine. Squinting in the dusk. His father’s hand on his back.

After dinner Xie cleans the attic. On his knees polishing the floor, laying new sheets on the mattress, clearing out old boxes from the closet. Dish of bones at the head of the bed, a branch on the pillow. The garden is ready; the attic is ready. When you hear Erik’s truck disappear down the road you drop silently down the stairs, black mask, black pants, the hammer in your hand.

At the threshold of the church you pause. Face slick beneath the mask. Wait for the fear to kick in but it doesn’t come: no one can hear you, stop you. Robed in the fresh dust of the woods, lungs drunk on its air. Pushing the door open. At last. You recognize the quality of the silence that always fills the church, not absence but expectation, a bubble longing to burst. The cabinet, freshly polished, as smooth as satin in the candlelight. The key gleams on its chain. The doors fall open and the body looks down at you, ravenous. Hand tight on the hammer you tap the glass, one, twice, then again, harder, full swing, and it falls like water, shattering over the stone. Splinters of glass cling to the black mask, in the fibers of which your blood remains, from the last time; you can still taste it. Shaking free of the shards. Hands trembling in the gloves. Climb into the case. Dust and bone and silver. Bracing your back against the wood. Deep breath. Leaning to put your mouth against his teeth, eyes shut tight as you let the kiss run through you. Beloved. Hand against his cheek. His brittle face. What you have waited for. Then: get the body free, strips of old leather strapping the body to a post. The knife cuts through the skin with a snap. In an instant he falls into you, groan of metal and velvet and bone. The glass cracks beneath your shoes. The body sighs. The crown slips from the skull. You put it on your own head.