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I grab the knife off the cart, gripping it firmly as I approach him. His sweat-slicked body shakes violently, his wrists raw from pulling at the chains.

“Oh, Dennis,” I say softly, my tone almost gentle. “You’ve been taking what wasn’t yours for so long. It’s time I take something in return.”

The blade presses against his groin, the tip biting into the soft flesh. Dennis lets out a strangled cry, his body trembling as hot tears spill down his cheeks. “Please!” he sobs. “Please, don’t do this!” The knife slices deep, a grotesque sound accompanying the hot spray of blood that follows. His scream rips through the air, high and cracked, the kind of sound that splinters inside your skull. It echoes off the shed walls, sharp as the metallic stink of blood and rust. Beside him, the pig squeals, nostrils twitching wide, snuffling at the scent that means feeding time.

The air is thick. It pulses with anticipation of what’s about to happen.

And then a buzz filters through the air. The vibration rattles against my hip, sharp and sudden.

My phone.

I fumble for it, my breath hitching. My fingers are clumsy, slick with sweat. The screen lights up, cold and blue in the dark.

My heart stutters.

The nursing home.

My father’s nursing home.

The world jerks sideways, the shed, the blood, the man sobbing in his ropes, the pig’s eager squeals, all of it slams into the quiet, sterile memory of white sheets and the thin hiss of oxygen tubes. My father’s ruined voice, his ruined mind.

I stare at the number flashing on the screen. For a beat, I don’t move. I’m frozen between two lives.

I swipe to answer, my hand trembling.

“Hello?” The word scrapes past the lump in my throat.

“Miss Anderson?” The voice on the other end is smooth, steady, painfully normal. “Are you okay?”

Am I okay?

I want to laugh. I want to scream. I want to tell them no, no, I’m not okay, I haven’t been okay in a long, long time. But instead, I close my eyes, steady my breath, and say, “Yes. I’m fine. I’m watching a scary movie. I can’t find the remote to turn it down,” my voice climbs in octaves, trying to cover up Dennis’s screams. I walk out of the shed, softly closing the door behind me.

“Okay,” she hesitates. “Sorry for the interruption. I’m calling because your father is showing new signs of awareness. His eyes have been tracking today, following movement. The doctor believes he may be emerging from his vegetative state. We’d like you to come in.”

The world tilts, and the words, ‘showing signs of awareness’ slam into my thoughts like a hammer. ‘The doctor believes he may be emerging’ makes my vision blur, the edges of the shed melting into the darkness. Everything presses against my chest.

I can’t breathe.

“Miss Anderson, did you hear me?”

“Yes, yes, I’m sorry. I did. Th–thank you,” I mumble, ending the call.

Dennis’s scream slices through the air like a jagged blade, raw and cracking with terror. Turning toward the window, I look at what has him in such a frenzy. It’s the pig. I didn’t tie the leash off tight enough, or it was just that hungry.

I push through the door before I can think better of it, the cold air giving away to the thick heat of the shed.

“Oh God! Oh God, please! Have mercy!”

His voice pitches higher, splintering into sharp, frantic notes as the pig’s teeth clamp down on his thigh. I watch, detached, distant, as the animal jerks its head violently, flesh tearing free in a wet, sucking rip. Blood sprays across the floor, streaking the walls in a savage, red arc. It spatters on the wood, thick and gleaming, pooling fast beneath him.

His pleading rattles in my ears, thin and reedy, the sound muffled and warped as though I’m submerged underwater.

“God, help me!” he sobs, the words bouncing off the rusted walls, echoing hollow and brittle in the thick air.

But there’s no answer.

Not from heaven.