In eighth-grade, Sara got knocked up by Kenny Watts. That’s a lie: it wasn’t Kenny. Her mother’s boyfriend finally left too much evidence behind, so Sara destroyed the evidence; I went with her.

We met before sunrise at the crossroads of Tipton and the highway. We walked until my mouth was dusty, and smells of Balsam River were caught in my hand-me-downs. We were hitchhikers that day. A woman who smelled like apples and pig shit pulled over and we drove mostly in silence. Finally, she said “girls could get in trouble walking on the roads alone like this.”