“Oh, no,” I said, eyeing the wound. I’d severed his jugular. A stupid mistake. A child’s mistake. One my mother would never make. It’s why I liked when she and Dad did the hunting. They knew just how to bite into the prey’s neck so that they couldn’t scream but were still alive long enough for us to enjoy our meal. Dad always loved the liver. I’d get one of the lungs. Mom always ate last because she liked to eat the heart up until its last beat.
