middle of my chest and presses me back down to the floor. I think about how bad a chicken farm smells to keep from getting hard. And once I’m lying flat, spine propped over the rounded foam piece, I force myself to focus on the banks of lights above me and the clanking of machinery around me rather than the way she looks hovering over me and the quiet way she murmurs, “Good job.” She counts under her breath, and I let my eyes close, trying to relax onto the roller, letting myself soften into the stretch across my back and chest. The pain slowly easing when her touch moves to the front of my
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