Sandis rushed toward her great-uncle, then stopped when she saw the table the smocked men had jumped from like flies from feces. The blood. The body. The hair. She lay prone on the table, her back cut open like a pig’s, her spine glistening. Bile burned Sandis’s throat. Her heart crumbled like the end of a lit cigar, and the ache of it radiated like a star. They’d already harvested her. Kaili was dead.
