"In the bathroom mirrors, we spritz our necks with apple and freesia, pin our hair against the scalp. So quiet in the house, we can hear trucks howling over the turnpike, carrying gasoline, live horses, frozen fruit. So many lives hushing out in the dark, hospital windows bright with birth. We’ll escape in the summer–black road tipping west, bare shoulders, boots, moon to follow through the acres of corn. No mother to lick her thumb and scrub the blush from our cheeks. No father to clog the drain with dead hair and cream. As we smudge our eyelids blue, lit branches vein the ceiling. Outside, the chain link shines."