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Born restless, her father used to say. Which was fine for a son, but bad for a daughter.
The hours pass, and as they do, the widow requests no water or wine, accepts no offered food, till some wonder if she means to become a saint. If it is piety, it is surely the strongest kind. If it is sickness, they want no part.
“Strange, isn’t it?” she says. “The more you taste, the more you want.”
UGH
Eight steps, it turns out, is enough to break a neck.
She feels no guilt, no grief, for what she’s done. Given the girl’s poor lot, it might as well have been an act of mercy. Death is a kind of freedom, after all.
That is the maddening thing about the hunger: it is always there.
