The creature’s heart rests against her thigh, waiting for her.

She knows it is the heart. She is very much aware of its ability to thump—how it thumped before, how it is exactly what should thump within her. She remembers the sketch in graphite all too well—made a point to ask as many questions as her daddy would allow before he lost patience, and made sure to note the piece she loves to listen to.

The piece she has been trying to revive.

“What’s that? In the center?”

“That is called the heart. It’s a part of the cardiovascular system, which—”

“Does it thump?”

“What?”

“Does it thump?”

He had paused, as if tasting for the correct answer on the tip of his tongue.

“Not always.”

She can tell this one no longer thumps. She holds it naked in her hand and can feel its cold stillness. The lack of a pulse, a throb; no thump-thump thumping.

Nothing.

She places her hand against her chest and pauses. Is it possible to lose a heart without having to open yourself up? Or can a heart just quiet down to nothing on its own? Grow tired and take a rest from thumping for eternity?

Is that what happened to hers?

She looks over to the blanket, at the creature who is now just a collection of parts. Once it was moving and thumping, but now it isn’t.

Is that what death is?

The two thoughts have never come together before—the interlacing of a silent heart and the concept of death. But she supposes it’s possible. She supposes it could be that one leads to the other.

There is nothing. And then there is death.

But there’s a deviation making the problem too complex to solve. And it’s her.

Because I’m not nothing. And I don’t remember losing my heart.

She removes her hand from her chest and holds the disembodied heart in her palms, cradling it with great care. Slowly, she stands, walks over to the blanket where all the pieces—the body, the lollipop stems, that heavy black metal with the violent barrel—are waiting, and places the heart in the center. She brings all four corners together and ties them up tight. She lifts the makeshift sack and bounces it up and down a few times. It maintains its integrity, though some spots bleed from gray to red and then blotch her exposed upper thigh with color.

She hopes it won’t be noticeable.

She slings the sack over her shoulder and rushes down the stairs, wanting to get this over with as soon as possible so she can return to her room to wait and think. The weight of the sack slams into her back as she hurries. She reaches the bottom of the stairs and runs to the wooden door. Her fingertips grip the knob.

Out there they’ll do so much worse . . . just don’t get caught.

Taking in a deep breath, she pushes the door open.