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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alt="Phantom by Liam Dragan"
class="motion-reduce"
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width="1200"
height="630"
>
sizes="(min-width: 1200px) 550px, (min-width: 750px) calc((100vw - 130px) / 2), calc((100vw - 50px) / 2)"
alt="Neuroluxe Implant no 3Z82M99B64 by Bryanna Botham"
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>
sizes="(min-width: 1200px) 550px, (min-width: 750px) calc((100vw - 130px) / 2), calc((100vw - 50px) / 2)"
alt="Blindly Following Orders by Chris Tattersall"
class="motion-reduce"
loading="lazy"
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sizes="(min-width: 1200px) 550px, (min-width: 750px) calc((100vw - 130px) / 2), calc((100vw - 50px) / 2)"
alt="Donor by Collette Night"
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>
