I thought for some reason of when I went fishing with Bill. We caught fish and just watched them flop on the deck with the hook stabbing their lip, throwing them back when they were almost out of breath.

Rod’s fingers grabbed my hip bone and guided me to the couch. Unzipped his own pants behind me.

“I have to go to the bathroom.” I was gonna throw up and couldn’t do it on Momma’s couch.

“Don’t worry, Sawyer,” he said. “It’ll be fine.”

“Can we go to my room?”

He put his hand around my mouth. “Shh.” His beer breath sprayed across my ear.

The hot taste of the roast beef I had earlier surged in my throat. “Please, can we move?”

Finally, he agreed to move.

I heard the bugs through the walls of the house. They should’ve been in their little holes. It was getting cold. But the cicadas were thriving, chirping like they were cheering someone on. And I wondered which of us—me or Rod—deserved to be punished as the whole forest hummed with the throttle of revenge.

Walking down that tunnel to my room with his hand on my shoulder was the last moment I was free. My jeans were still bunched around my ankles, so I had to waddle. I thought I would trip. Rod’s hands would not let me go.

In the room, I broke for the closet with such speed he had to let go.

“Sawyer!” He yelled at me like I was his dog who’d escaped a leash.

I dove for the guns in my closet and grabbed what I could.

I swung it around and hit him in the jaw. He stumbled backward with his hand on his chin. I came out of the closet, AR-15 trained at his forehead.

“Back away from me,” I commanded.

He did, holding up his hands, smiling nervously. “Sawyer . . . come on now . . .”

I told him to take off his clothes. The words came out in a panic. I didn’t know the next thing to do.

“Sawyer . . .” He took off his shirt. His body was pale. His hair wrapped around his navel like a parasitic snake. Nothing I’d ever want to see.

I began to lower the gun, but the taste of vomit came back.

“Drop it, Sawyer.”

Momma had appeared in the doorway, forgotten tote bag strung over her shoulder. She was holding a revolver, and it was pointed at my head.

There were so many questions that no one around me had answers for.

Like, why do I exist? What is the purpose of me?

No one ever gave me a good reason to get out of bed every day.

“Drop the gun, Sawyer,” Momma demanded, her voice shaking. “Now.”

“I don’t know what happened, Joy,” Rod said, putting on his best scared face. “He just . . . He just turned on me like this.”