During that time, her body expands and decompresses, working through cells and distributing nutrients to the parts of her that have been long neglected: her stomach, her skin, her nails, her teeth. No longer needed, the rage settles, ridding for her the discomfort of want, soothing that bubbling pit called hunger, fortifying her as it does so. Like a syringe filling with liquid, it expands throughout her limbs until its properties reach her every molecule. Until the container swells.

When she is well and rested, she stirs awake, revitalized and smiling. Her spine curls into a stretch and the thought of her daddy puckers in her brain—him and a lollipop and . . .

She looks to the center of her room, expecting to see her toys, a momentary flash of amnesia muddling her brain. Instead, her gaze is met with a body. Her muscles tense, anticipating movement, waiting for the creature to jump and attack her; but the body remains limp, surrounded by a thick, jellied outline of red.

The saturated memory floods in. His face. His skin. His lifeless eyes.

The way he tasted.

So sweet . . .

She retches, holding on to her stomach, hearing a squelch from the contact. Her naked body is stained with blood, clots of it stuck to her skin that squish beneath her touch. She grabs for the towel slipped halfway off her mattress—black dust and flakes of red fall from the fibers—and wipes herself down, whimpering from the rub of slime.

She pulls her dress on over her head. Encased in fabric, she feels protected. Held together by a shield of cloth. Almost invincible.

Quietly, she picks up a lollipop stem—one of dozens still scattered across the mattress. She takes aim and pelts it at the body, hitting its leg.

It doesn’t respond.

She waits. It doesn’t move.

She crawls toward it. It doesn’t react to her approach.

She reaches its side and curls her legs into her chest, watching it from behind the barrier of her knees. She presses her finger into its arm and pushes. The body only wobbles momentarily on its spine.

“Hello?” she whispers.

Nothing.

She leans over to examine the gash in its throat. Pieces of flesh fan out, tubes trailing from inside split apart. She can almost see down one of them. Its stomach is spotless except for a single red-rimmed hole drilled into the center. Her fingertips graze its skin but pick up no heat, its touch dull.

But he was so warm . . .

She crawls around the body, wanting to see it from different angles, wanting to see from every possible direction that pale face—nearly yet not quite as pale as hers—with plump blue lips and impossibly dark eyes. All the while thinking:

This creature . . . it looks so much like me . . .