It starts in the forest, false lilies and lilacs. We park two miles down Dosewallips Road. The trailhead commits us, dead cellphones and switchbacks. Olympic National. Forest scratched out. There’s a twisted stick (you pick it up). Out of state plates (no belt on the driver). When we fuck you shake like loose ice on the river. The sky wants more than the birds do, etc. Later, the sheriff will say we got lucky. The man in the clearing averted his eyes. Trailed us for miles, always five feet behind us. Photos of trees sawed in half with hot teeth.

Sixth grade science: mice in cages, fetal pig, pink rubber skin. Whoever unwound their pig’s intestine in one long string got extra credit. Beside me, John yanked Dierdre’s hair, worlds of trouble dim as math. Boys pawed pleated shirts to plaid. First name: Fedle. Surname: Pig. It snowed inside, but just on me. Bones wore wool to lunch and gym. The others wore their human clothes, strappy tees and open toes.

Easy to warn the girl in the slasher pic with a hiss and a shudder. Easy to sentence her to death, dismemberment at Bible camp, where you go to ride bareback and braid doormats from bread bags. Your counselor is tall, blonde Sally, and tan. Later, at dance camp, you flail on your toes. At cheerleading camp, you wear a short skirt that sways when you walk, as if someone’s watching. Someone is always watching a girl. Listen carefully to the voice in the movie. The girl in the movie made unfortunate choices, which you never do. She’s nothing like you. And now she’s nothing, blank bed in your cabin, where you rest after Crafts while you count down to Pool. She’s so gone it’s wholesome: purse on a hook, copper penny missing where good luck lurks.