There’s a zipper at the back of my throat. It doesn’t have a toggle or a head. When the night air feels like static and I can’t move, I know he’s coming.
He hums as he sets down his satchel. Steel clinks as he rummages. He fits an instrument around my jaw and cranks.
He works the zipper with a needle—parts it tooth by tooth.
“Bountiful harvest,” he says, right before he reaches inside. He tears out what he wants, then covers my eyes. I never know just what it is that’s being taken.
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